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272 “You know I'd have given her a big wedding, if she’d wanted it.”

“Oh, it’s better quiet,” I said. “The fewer to see Phillippa marry a man like Mark Foster the better.”

“Mark Foster is a good man, Rachel.”

“No good man would be content to buy a girl as he’s bought Phillippa,” I said, determined to give it in to her. “He’s a common fellow, not fit for my dearie to wipe her feet on. It’s well that her mother didn’t live to see this day; but this day would never have come, if she’d lived.”

“I dare say Phillippa’s mother would have remembered that Mark Foster is very well off, quite as readily as worse people,” said Isabella, a little spitefully.

I liked her better when she was spiteful than when she was smooth. I didn’t feel so scared of her then.

The marriage was to be at eleven o'clock, and, at nine, I went up to help Phillippa dress. She was no fussy bride, caring much what she looked like. If Owen had been the bridegroom it would have been different. Nothing would have pleased her then; but now it was only just “That will do very well, Aunt Rachel,” without even glancing at it.

Still, nothing could prevent her from looking lovely when she was dressed. My dearie would