“You will not,” said Ajax.  “Remember, Jasperson, that a burning black eye indicates jealousy, which you must beware of arousing.  Don’t praise too wantonly the beauty of Miss Dutton’s sisters and cousins; but if the father is well-looking, pay your mistress the compliment of saying that the children of true lovers always take after the father.  In turning the leaves of the album you might touch her hand, quite accidentally.  No less an authority than Mr. Pickwick commends a respectful pressure.”

“I’ll do it,” exclaimed Jasperson, “I’ll do it, sure!”

“Has she a pretty hand?” I asked.

“Has she a pretty hand!” echoed the lover, in disdainful tones, “She has the hand of a queen!  The Empress of Roosia ain’t got a whiter nor a finer hand!  Miss Birdie ain’t done no harder work than smackin’ a kid that needs it.”

“I’ve heard,” said I, “that she can smack—­hard.”

“An’ I’d be a liar if I denied it,” replied Jasperson.  “Wal, gen’lemen, I’m obligated to ye.  Next Sabbath I’ll wade right in.”

Upon the following Sunday our hero rose betimes, tubbed himself, shaved himself, perfumed his small person with bergamot, and then arrayed it in the ivy-bosomed shirt and the $75 suit of broadcloth.  His toilet occupied just two hours and seventeen minutes.  Ajax decorated the lapel of his coat with a handsome rosebud, and then the impatient swain tied round his neck a new white silk handkerchief, mounted his horse, and betook himself at a gallop to the village church.  Ajax remarked with regret that the pace was too hot at the start, and feared that our colt would finish badly.  As we walked back to the verandah, I told my brother that he had assumed a big responsibility; for I was convinced that Miss Dutton, albeit possessed of many admirable qualities, was not the woman to make little Jasperson either happy or comfortable.  She, doubtless, being a wise bird, would greedily snap up this nice worm who had waxed fat in the richest soil.  But how would the worm fare when swallowed up and absorbed?

At five that afternoon the amorous poet rode slowly up to the corral.  As he sat limply upon his sorrel horse, smiling dismally at Ajax, we could see that the curl was out of his moustache, and out of the brim of his sombrero; upon his delicate face was inscribed failure.

“Boys,” said he, throwing one leg over the horn of the saddle; “I didn’t get there.  I—­I mired down!”

Later, he gave us some interesting details.  It transpired that he had met his sweetheart, after Sabbath-school, and had sat beside her during the regular service; after church he had accepted a warm invitation from Mrs. Swiggart to join the family circle at dinner.  At table he had been privileged to supply Miss Birdie with many dainties:  pickled cucumbers, cup-custards, and root beer.  He told us frankly that he had marked nothing amiss with the young lady’s appetite, but that for his part he had made a sorry meal.