Until Dotty saw this, she had been happy; but the thought of standing up with a boy who held such a beautiful toy, while her own little hands would be empty—­this was too much.

“Johnny Eastman,” said she, with a trembling voice, “how do you think it will look to be holding flowers up to your nose when the minister’s a-praying?  I’d be so ’shamed, so ’shamed, Johnny Eastman!”

“You want the bouquet-holder yourself, you know you do,” said Johnny; “you want everything you see; and if folks don’t give right up to you, then there’s a fuss.”

“O, Johnny Eastman, I’m a girl, and that’s the only reason why I want the bouquet-holder!  If I was a boy, do you s’pose I’d touch such a thing?  But I can’t wear flowers in the button-holes of my coat—­now can I?”

The children were in the guest chamber, preparing to go down—­all but Prudy, who was in her mother’s room, assisting at the bridal toilet.  Susy and Flossy stood before the mirror, and Johnny and Dotty in the middle of the room, confronting each other with angry brows.

[Illustration:  DOTTY WANTS THE BOUQUET-HOLDER.]

“Hush, children!” said Susy, in an absentminded way, and went on brushing her hair, which was one of the greatest trials in the whole world, because it would not curl.  She had frizzed it with curling-tongs, rolled it on papers, and drenched it with soap suds till there was danger of its fading entirely away; still it was as straight, after all, as an Indian’s.

“O, dear!” said she; “it sticks up all over my head like a skein of yarn.  Children, do hush!”

“Mine curls too tight, if anything; don’t you think so?” asked Flossy, trying not to look as well satisfied with herself as she really felt; adding, by way of parenthesis, “Johnny, why can’t you be quiet?”

“Are you going to let me have that bouquet-holder, Johnny Eastman?” continued Dotty; “’cause I’m going right out to tell my mother.  She’ll be so mortified she’ll send you right home, if you hold it up to your nose, when you are nothing but a boy.”

“That’s right, Dimple, run and tell.”

“No, I shan’t tell if you’ll give it to me.  And you may have one of the roses in your button-hole, Johnny.  That’s the way the Pickings man had, that wrote Little Nell; father said so.  There’s a good boy, now!”

Dotty dropped her voice to a milder key, and smiled as sweetly as the bitterness of her feelings would permit.  She had set her heart on the toy, and her white slippers, and even her gold necklace, dwindled into nothing in comparison.

“Whose mother owns this bouquet-holder, I’d like to know?” said Johnny, flourishing it above his head.  “And whose father brought home the flowers from the green-house?”

“Well, any way, Johnny, ’twas my aunt and uncle, you know; and they’d be willing, ’cause your mamma let me have her necklace ’thout my asking.”

“I can’t help it if they’re both as willing as two peas,” cried Johnny.  “I’m not willing myself, and that’s enough.”