Now, in the wisdom of her fourteen years, she began to suspect what the trouble had been, and resolved to ask Joyce for the solution of the mystery.
Now that Phil was twenty years old and doing a man's work in the world, she supposed she ought to call him Mr.Tremont, or, at least, Mr.Phil.
Probably in his travels, with all the important things that a civil engineer has to think of, he had forgotten her and the way he had romped with her at the Wigwam, and how he had saved her life the time the Indian chased her.

Being the bridegroom's brother and best man at the wedding, he would scarcely notice her.

Or, if he did cast a glance in her direction, she had grown so much probably he never would recognize her.

Still, if he _should_ remember her, she wanted to appear at her best advantage, and she began considering what was the best her wardrobe afforded.
She lay there some time trying to decide whether she should be all in white when she met him, or in the dress with the little sprigs of forget-me-nots sprinkled over it.

White was appropriate for all occasions, still the forget-me-nots would be suggestive.