“Whew!” panted the exhausted swain, mopping his brow.  “I’m clean tuckered out.  I ain’t done so much work for ten years.”

“Don’t say a word, Caleb Hammond.  If I ain’t got my death of—­of ammonia or somethin’, I miss my guess.  I’m all wheezed up from settin’ at that open winder waitin’ for you to come; and I thought you never would come.”

As Caleb was helping the lady of his choice into the carryall he noticed that she carried a small hand-bag.

“What you got that thing for?” he demanded.

“It’s my reticule; there’s a clean handkerchief and a few other things in it.  Mercy on us!  You didn’t suppose I’d go off to get married without even a decent handkerchief, did you?  I feel enough like a sneakin’ ragamuffin and housebreaker as ’tis.  Why I ever was crazy enough to—­where have you put the horse?”

Mr. Hammond led her to where George Washington was tethered.  The father of his country was tired of standing alone in the damp, and he trotted off briskly.  The first mile of their journey was accomplished safely, although the night was pitch-dark, and when they turned into the Bayport Road, which for two-thirds of its length leads through thick soft pine and scrub-oak woods, it was hard to distinguish even the horse’s ears.  Miss Parker insisted that every curtain of the carryall—­at the back and both sides—­should be closely buttoned down, as she was fearful of the effects of the night air.

“Fresh air never hurts nobody,” said Caleb.  “There ain’t nothin’ so good for a body as fresh air.  I sleep with my window open wide winter and summer.”

“You do?  Well, I tell you right now, I don’t.  I should say not!  I shut every winder tight and I make Kenelm do the same thing.  I don’t run any risks from drafts.”

Mr. Hammond grunted, and was silent for some little time, only brightening up when the lady, now in a measure recovered from her fright and the anxiety of waiting, began to talk of the blessings that were to come from their independent wedded life in a home of their own.

“We’ll keep chickens,” she said, “because I do like fresh eggs for breakfast.  Let’s see; this is the way ’twill be; you’ll get up about five o’clock and kindle the fire, and—­”

“Hey?”

“I say you’ll get up at five o’clock and kindle the fire.”

“Me get up and kindle it?”

“Sartin; you don’t expect I’m goin’ to, do you?”

“No-o, I suppose not.  It come kind of sudden, that’s all.  You see, I’ve been used to turnin’ out about seven.  Seldom get up afore that.”

“Seven!  My soul!  I always have my breakfast et by seven.  Well, as I say, you get up at five and kindle the fire, and then you’ll go out to the henyard and get what eggs there is.  Then—­”

“Then I’ll come in and call you, and you’ll come down and get breakfast.  What breakfasts we will have!  Eggs for you, if you want ’em, and ham and fried potatoes for me, and pie—­”