“I think,” she said when Jesse had retired, “that Charles must be saving up that beast to kill himself with.  He will not pull a chaise yet.”

“Has Charles tried him?”

“In the lane in an open wagon.  He has a whim of having him broken to drive without blinders, bare of harness; he has been away so of late that he has not accomplished it.”

Bill entered while we were talking, and Alice told him he must not attempt to use the horse, but proposed he should take her pair and drive out with me.  I shook my head in vain; she was bent on mischief.  He was mollified by the proposal, and I was obliged to get ready.  On starting he placed his cap on one side, held his whip upright, telling me that it was not up to the mark in length, and doubled his knuckles over the reins.  He was a good Jehu, but I could not induce him to observe anything along the road.

“Where’s Mr. Morgeson’s mills?”

We turned in their direction.

“He is a man of property, ain’t he?”

“I think so.”

“He has prime horses anyhow.  That stallion of his would bring a first-rate price if he wanted to sell.  Do you play the piano?”

“A little.”

“And sing?”

“Yes.”

“I have not heard you.  Will you sing ’A place in thy memory, dearest,’ some time for me?”

“Certainly.”

“Are you fond of flowers and the like?”

“Very fond of them.”

“So am I; our tastes agree.  Here we are, hey?”

Charles came out when he saw us coming over the bridge, and Bill pulled up the horses scientifically, giving him a coachman’s salute.  “You see I am quite a whip.”

“You are,” said Charles.

“What a cub!” he whispered me.  “I think I’ll give up my horses and take to walking as you have.”

On the way home Bill held the reins in one hand and attempted to take mine with the other, a proceeding which I checked, whereupon he was exceedingly confused.  The whip fell from his clutch over the dasher, and in recovering it his hat fell off; shame kept him silent for the rest of the ride.

I begged Alice to propose no more rides with Cousin Bill.  That night he composed a letter which he sent me by Charlotte early the next morning.

“Why, Charlotte, what nonsense is this?”

“I expect,” she answered sympathizingly, “that it is an offer of his hand and heart.”

“Don’t mention it, Charlotte.”

“Never while I have breath.”

In an hour she told Phoebe, who told Alice, who told Charles, and there it ended.  It was an offer, as Charlotte predicted.  My first!  I was crestfallen!  I wrote a reply, waited till everybody had gone to breakfast, and slipping into his room, pinned it to the pincushion.  In the evening he asked if I ever sang “Should these fond hopes e’er forsake thee." I gave him the “Pirate’s Serenade” instead, which his mother declared beautiful.  I saw Alice and Charles laughing, and could hardly help joining them, when I looked at Bill, in whose countenance relief and grief were mingled.