“I ain’t a-going to let Maw insult Bob no more, but I don’t want no Boliver wedding in the office of no hotel.  I want to be married where folks can look at me, and have something good to eat, and throw old shoes and rice at me,” came in a more constrained and connected flow, as the poor little fugitive raised her head from her arm and reached down to settle her skirts about her ankles, from which she had flirted them in the kicks of one of her most violent paroxysms.  Louisa Helen was very young and just as pretty as she was young.  She was rosy and dimpled and had absurd little baby curls trailing down over her eyes, and her tears had no more effect on her face than a summer shower.

“Why, what did your mother say to Bob?” asked Everett, thus drawn into the position of arbitrator between two family factions.

“She told him that Jennie Rucker would be about his frying size when he got old enough to pick a wife, and it hurt his feelings so he didn’t come to see me for a week, and he says he ain’t never coming no more.  If I want him I will have to go over to Boliver and marry him to-morrow.”  A sob began to rise again in the poor little bride prospective’s throat at the thought of the horrible Boliver wedding.

The autocrat shifted uneasily, and in the dusk Everett could see that he was completely melted and ready to surrender his position if he could only find the line of retreat.

“Well,” said Everett judicially, as he looked up at Bob with a wink, which was answered by the slightest beginning of laugh from the insulted one, “I don’t believe Bob wants to do without that bouquet and veil and supper either.  They are just the greatest things that ever happen to a man”—­another wink at Bob—­“and Bob don’t want to give them up.  Now suppose you go on back home to-night and don’t say anything to your mother about the matter, and to-morrow I’ll ask Mr. Crabtree to step over and make it up with Bob for her.  I feel sure she’ll invite them both in to supper, and then sometime soon we can all discuss the veil-bouquet question.  You aren’t in a hurry, are you?”

“Naw,” answered Bob promptly.  “Me and Paw ain’t got all the winter wheat in yet, and we’ve got to cut clover next week.  We’re mighty busy now.  I ain’t in no hurry.”

“And I don’t want to get married no way except when the briar roses is in bloom so I can have the church tucked out in ’em.  And I’ve got to get some pretty clothes made, too,” answered Louisa Helen, thus putting in direct contrast the feminine and masculine attitude towards nuptials in general and also in particular.

“Then go on back home, you two,” said Everett with a laugh, as he rose to his feet and drew to hers the now smiling Louisa Helen.  “And I predict that by the time the briar roses are out something will happen to make it all right.  Put your faith in Mr. Crabtree, I should advise, I suspect that he has—­er influence with your mother.”  A giggle from Louisa Helen and a guffaw from Bob, as the two young people started on back along the Road, showed that they had both appreciated his veiled sally.