“Oh-h,” moaned the wretched ARCHIBALD, “please stop.  That’s COBB, Jr.  I know it is.  When I was sea-sick on the canal, they read a chapter to me just like that, instead of giving me an emetic, and I was out of my head all next day.”

“But you do love me, don’t you, ARCHIBALD?—­just a very small fragment, you know.”

She seized him by the ear and kissed him twice.

“Come, own up now,” said she, “that from the first moment you saw me, you have felt a sort of a spooney hankering, and a general looseness, including a desire to write poetry and use hair-oil, and wear pretty neckties; a sort of a feeling that your clothes don’t fit you, and you can’t bear the sight of gravy, and dote on lavender kids, and want to part your hair in the middle. That’s being in love, ARCHIE.  That’s—­”

At this juncture voices were heard calling for ARCHIBALD.

“Oh, do, do let me go,” he pleaded.

BELINDA grasped him firmly by the collar.  “Heaven knows,” said she impressively, “that I have wooed you thus far in a spirit of the most delicate consideration.  Now, I mean business, I want a husband, and by the Sixteenth Amendment, you don’t stir from this spot, until you promise to marry me!”

“But—­but—­I don’t want to get married,” said ARCHIBALD; “I—­I—­ain’t old enough.”

She glared at him menacingly.

“Am I to understand then,” she shrieked, “that you dare refuse me?” And she laughed hysterically.

“Oh, no, no.  I wouldn’t.  Of course I wouldn’t,” groaned the ghastly youth.  “I’ll promise anything, if you’ll only let me go.”

Thus it was, mid the hushed repose of that lovely June twilight, while all Nature seemed to pronounce a sweet benediction, that these loving hearts commingled.  The soft hum of the June-bug seemed to have a sweeter sound, and the little fly walked unmolested across their foreheads, for they were betrothed.

CHAPTER THIRD.

WHERE THE WOODBINE TWINETH.

Notwithstanding the thrilling events enacted near by, that modest production of Nature, the woodbine, still continued to twine in all its pristine virginity.  And meanwhile, JEFFRY MAULBOY is at the appointed rendezvous, waiting for ANN BRUMMET.

She comes.

But why that glazed expression, and that convulsive twitching of the lips?

She is chewing gum.

“Hilloa, JEFF,” said she.  “Mean thing.  Been here a whole day, and not a single word about my new overskirt.  How does it hang behind?”

What reply does this cruel, this heartless man make?

He took a chew of tobacco, and said: 

“Oh, bother your overskirt.  Is that the ‘something very particular’ you wanted to see me for?”

“Oh no,” she replied; “I forgot.”  She looked cautiously round, and added: 

“Say, JEFF, folks are talking about us awfully.”