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THERE is to be a wedding this morning at the corner house in the terrace. The pastry-cook's people have been there half-a-dozen times already; all day yesterday there was a great stir and bustle, and they were up this morning as soon as it was light. Miss Emma Fielding is going to be married to young Mr. Harvey.
Heaven alone can tell in what bright colours this marriage is painted upon the mind of the little housemaid at number six, who has hardly slept a wink all night with thinking of it, and now stands on the unswept door-steps leaning upon her broom, and looking wistfully towards the enchanted house. Nothing short of omniscience can divine what visions of the baker, or the green-grocer, or the smart and most insinuating butterman, are flitting across her mind-what thoughts of how she would dress on such an occasion, if she were a lady-of how she would dress, if she were only a bride-of how cook would dress, being bridesmaid, conjointly with her sister ‘in place' at Fulham, and how the clergyman, deeming them so many ladies, would be quite humbled and respectful.