“Mrs. Thorndyke told them to try their affinity plan if they dared, and she’d show them that they couldn’t drag a poor orphan away from her friends against her will.  And I hung to her, and I cried, and said I’d kill myself before I’d go with him; and that man”—­meaning Gowdy—­“tried to talk sweet and affectionate and brotherly to me, and I hid my face in Mrs. Thorndyke’s bosom—­and Mr. Creede looked as if he were sick of his case, and told that man that he would like further consultation with him before proceeding further—­and they went away.  But every time I see that man he acts as if he wanted to talk with me, and smiles at me—­but I won’t look at him.  Oh, why can’t they all be good like you, Teunis?”

Then she told me that I looked a lot better when I shaved—­at which I blushed like everything, and this seemed to tickle her very much.  Then she asked if I wasn’t surprised when she called me Teunis.  She had thought a good deal over it, she said, and she couldn’t, couldn’t like the name of Jacob, or Jake; but Teunis was a quality name.  Didn’t I think I’d like it if I changed my way of writing my name to J. Teunis Vandemark?

“I like to have you call me Teunis,” I said; “but I wouldn’t like to have any one else do it.  I like to have you have a name to call me by that nobody else uses.”

“That’s a very gallant speech,” she said, blushing—­and I vow, I didn’t know what gallant meant, and was a little flustered for fear her blushes were called out by something shady.

“Besides,” I said, “I have always heard that nobody but a dandy ever parts his name or his hair in the middle!”

“Rubbish!” said she.  “My father’s name was A. Fletcher Royall, and he was a big strong man, every inch of him.  I reckon, though, that the customs are different in the North.  Then you won’t take me with you, and go back by way of our grove, and—­”

And just then Elder Thorndyke came in, and we wished that Mrs. Thorndyke would come to tell what I should bring from Dubuque.  He told me in the meantime, about his plans for building a church, and how he was teaching Virginia, so that she could be a teacher herself when she was old enough.

“We’ll be filling this country with schools, soon,” he said, “and they’ll want nice teachers like Virginia.”

“Won’t that be fine?” asked Virginia.  “I just love children.  I play with dolls now—­a little.  And then I can do something to repay my new father and mother for all they are doing for me.  And you must come to church, Teunis.”

“Virginia says,” said the elder, “that you have a good voice.  I wish you’d come and help out with the singing.”

“Oh, I can’t sing,” I demurred; “but I’d like to come.  I will come, when I get back.”

“Yes, you can sing,” said Virginia.  “Here’s a song he taught me back on the prairie: 

     “’Down the river, O down the river, O down the river we go-o-o;
     Down the river, O down the river, O down the Ohio-o-o!