She was in snowy white--a quaint little frock, with a marvel of soft lace around her throat and wrists.

Through the sheer sleeves of it her beautiful, rounded arms showed distinctly, and it was cut just to the base of her perfect neck.

On her head was a pure white creation of fancy braid, with folds on folds of tulle, soft and silken as cobwebs, lining the brim; while a mass of white roses clustered against the gold of her hair, crept around the crown, and fell in a riot to her shoulders at the back.

There were gleams of gold with settings of blue on her fingers, and altogether she was the daintiest, sweetest sight he ever had seen.

Freckles, standing on the curb, forgot himself in his cotton shirt, corduroys, and his belt to which his wire-cutter and pliers were hanging, and gazed as a man gazes when first he sees the woman he adores with all her charms enhanced by appropriate and beautiful clothing.
"Oh Freckles," she cried as she came to him.