I WAS discussing plans with Florence in her sanctum one afternoon, when
she said to me:
“Uriel, you're a hummer. We can't get along without you. The advertising
has doubled, and it's due mostly to your efforts. Please consider
yourself married to this paper, and with no chance of divorce. I'll
treble your salary.”
“I couldn't help doing well with such a paper to work for,” I said.
“There's no credit due me.”
“I don't agree with you. Of course, we've made a good paper. I thought
it was about time that the women, who did most of the work, had a voice
in the government of the village. Women have some rights, and I think
I've a right to know whether you still care for me or not.”
“Florence, I love you more than ever,” I said. I rose and stepped toward
her, my face burning; and she quickly opened the gate of the railing,
went behind it, and held me back with her hand.
“Havelock, you stupid thing!” said she. “What I want now is
eloquence--real, Websterian eloquence, and plenty of it.”
I stood like a fool, blushing to the roots of my hair, and she took pity
on me.
“Bear in mind,” said she, “that I am not the least bit grateful. I just
naturally love you, sir; that's the truth about it.” Then my tongue was
loosed. I do not remember what I said, but it was satisfactory to her,
and right in the midst of it she unlocked the gate.
We were both crying in each other's arms when there came a rap at the
door.
“One moment,” she called, as we endeavored to dry our eyes, while she
noisily bustled about the room. Then she opened the door, and there
stood Dan'l W. Smead.
“Come in,” said she; “and don't mind my appearance. I have just listened
to an address full of the most impassioned eloquence. It touched my
heart.”
Dan'l W. looked at us, smiled, and said with unerring insight, “I
presume it was an address to the electors of his home district.”
“It was,” said she.
“Did his eyes behold for the last time the sun in heaven?”
“No, sir; they beheld it for the first time.”
“And it shines brighter than ever before on land or sea,” I added.
“He'll do,” said Smead. “He has much to learn about the oratory and
politics of love; but I move that he be elected by osculation.”
“It has been accomplished,” said Florence, as she covered her blushing
face.
“But there were no tellers to record the vote,” he insisted.
We voted again.
“God bless you both!” said Smead, with enthusiasm.
He kissed her, gave me a little hug, and added: “Her father told me what
would happen, an' I believe he gave his consent in advance.”
“He did,” said Florence.
“Old boy, you've got a life job on your hands keepin' up with her. It
suggests an editorial.”
“How so?” Florence inquired.
“It will run about like this,” Dan! W. went on. “'The first occupation
of man was keepin' up with Eve. She got tired of seein' him lie in the
shade an' of hearin' him lie in the shade. So she contrived a situation
in which it was necessary for him to get busy; she got him a job. It
was no temporary thing; it was a real, permanent job. Many have tried to
resign an' devote their lives to rum, eloquence, an' trottin'-hosses.
We have seen the result in Griggsby. It is deplorable. _Little Corporal_
calls them back to their tasks.'”
We applauded his editorial.
“Oh, I could compose an Iliad, now that I know you're both happy,” said
he.
“Betsey did it!” Florence exclaimed. “She gave me courage.”
“Poor Betsey!” said Dan'l W. “You know, her grandfather died a few weeks
ago an' left her his fortune, an' she's dreadfully grieved about it
because her beau, young Socrates Potter, has said that he would never
marry a rich woman. The boys are gettin' awfully noble an' inhuman. I'm
glad that Havelock has reformed.”