“Now wait just a minute, Lou Plunkett,” said Mr. Crabtree in a radiant voice as he came out from around the counter and stood before her with his eyes fairly glowing with his emotion.  “Have you done decided yourself?  This is twixt me and you, and I don’t want no Sweetbriar present for a wife if I can help it.  Have you done decided?”

“Yes, Mr. Crabtree I have, and I had oughter stopped and told you, but I wanted to go quick as I could to see Mr. Tucker and Rose Mary.  He gave consent immediately, and looked like Rose Mary couldn’t do nothing but talk about you and how good you was.  I declare I began to get kinder proud about you right then and there, ’fore I’d even told you as I’d have you.”  And the demure little widow cast a smile out from under a curl that had fallen down into her bright eyes that was so young and engaging that Mr. Crabtree had to lean against the counter to support himself.  His storm-tossed single soul was fairly blinded at even this far sight of the haven of his double desires, but it was just as well that he was dumb for joy, for Mrs. Rucker was more than equal to the occasion.

“Well, glory be, Lou Plunkett, if that ain’t a fine piece of news!” she exclaimed as she bestowed a hearty embrace upon the widow and one almost as hearty upon the overcome Mr. Crabtree.  “And you can’t know till you’ve tried what a pleasure and a comfort a second husband can be if you manage ’em right.  Single folks a-marrying are likely to gum up the marriage certificate with some kind of a mistake until it sticks like fly-paper, but a experienced choice generally runs smooth like melted butter.”  And with a not at all unprecedented feminine change of front Mrs. Rucker substituted a glance of unbridled pride for the one of scorn she had lately bestowed upon the poet, under which his wilted aspect disappeared and he also began to bloom out with the joy of approval and congratulation.

“And I say marrying a widow are like getting a rose some other fellow have clipped and thorned to wear in your buttonhole, Crabtree; they ain’t nothing like ’em.”  Thus poet and realist made acknowledgment each after his and her own order of mind, but actuated by the identical feeling of contented self-congratulation.

“I’m a-holding in for fear if I breathe on this promise of Mis’ Plunkett’s it’ll take and blow away.  But you all have heard it spoke,” said the merry old bachelor in a voice that positively trembled with emotion as he turned and mechanically began to sort over a box of clothespins, mixed as to size and variety.

“Shoo, Crabbie, don’t begin by bein’ afraid of your wife, jest handle ’em positive but kind and they’ll turn your flapjacks peaceable and butter ’em all with smiles,” and Mr. Rucker beamed on his friend Crabtree as he wound one of his wife’s apron strings all around one of his long fingers, a habit he had that amused him and he knew in his secret heart teased her.