The telegram came.

“They are all right,” shouted Mr. Garner joyously, as he quickly opened and read the yellow missive, “they went on the excursion and Sam Lamb is bringing them home on the accommodation.”

As the Major, short, plump, rubicund, jolly, and Miss Minerva, tall, sallow, angular, solemn, were walking to the station to meet the train that was bringing home the runaways, the elderly lover knew himself to be at last master of the situation.

“The trouble with Billy—­” he began, adjusting his steps to Miss Minerva’s mincing walk.

“William,” she corrected, faintly.

“The trouble with Billy,” repeated her suitor firmly, “is this:  you have tried to make a girl out of a healthy, high-spirited boy; you haven’t given him the toys and playthings a boy should have; you have not even given the child common love and affection.”  He was letting himself go, for he knew that she needed the lecture, and, wonderful to tell, she was listening meekly.  “You have steeled your heart,” he went on, “against Billy and against me.  You have about as much idea how to manage a boy as a—­as a—­” he hesitated for a suitable comparison:  he wanted to say “goat,” but gallantry forbade; “as any other old maid,” he blurted out, realizing as he did so that a woman had rather be called a goat than an old maid any time.

The color mounted to Miss Minerva’s face.

“I don’t have to be an old maid,” she snapped spunkily.

“No; and you are not going to be one any longer,” he answered with decision.  “I tell you what, Miss Minerva, we are going to make a fine, manly boy out of that nephew of yours.”

“We?” she echoed faintly.

“Yes, we!  I said we, didn’t I?” replied the Major ostentatiously.  “The child shall have a pony to ride and every thing else that a boy ought to have.  He is full of natural animal spirits and has to find some outlet for them; that is the reason he is always in mischief.  Now, I think I understand children.”  He drew himself up proudly.  “We shall be married to-morrow,” he announced, “that I may assume at once my part of the responsibility of Billy’s rearing.”

Miss Minerva looked at him in fluttering consternation.

“Oh, no, not to-morrow,” she protested; “possibly next year some time.”

“To-morrow,” reiterated the Major, his white moustache bristling with determination.  Having at last asserted himself, he was enjoying the situation immensely and was not going to give way one inch.

“We will be married to-morrow and—­”

“Next month,” she suggested timidly.

“To-morrow, I tell you!”

“Next week,” she answered.

“To-morrow!  To-morrow!  To-morrow!” cried the Major, happy as a schoolboy.

“Next Sunday night after church,” pleaded Miss Minerva.

“No, not next Sunday or Monday or Tuesday.  We will be married to-morrow,” declared the dictatorial Confederate veteran.