Oh, hum. Now that Nancy's baby is gurgling or squalling, according to
a full tummy, or tooth conditions; and Nancy is looking, as Gadsby
says, "as good as a million dollars," I find that that busy young
son-of-a-gun, Dan Cupid, is still snooping around Branton Hills. And
_now_ who do you think is hit? Try to think of a lot of girls in
Gadsby's old Organization of Youth. No, it's not Sarah Young, nor Lucy
Donaldson, nor Virginia Adams. It was brought to your historian in this
way:--
Lady Gadsby and His Honor sat around his parlor lamp, His Honor
noticing that Lady G. was smiling, finally saying:--
"John."
"Uh-huh."
"Kathlyn and John Smith,----"
"What?"
"I said that Kathlyn and John Smith want to----"
"Oho! Aha!! I'll call up Pastor Brown to start right off dolling up his
big church!"
"No, no! Not now! Wait about six months. This is only a troth. Folks
don't jump into matrimony, that way."
"Hm-m-m! I don't know about that," said Gadsby, laughing; and thinking
way back to that captivating lasso!
John Smith was Branton Hills' famous church organist; and, at a small,
dainty lunch, Kathlyn told of this troth. In a day or two about all
Branton Hills' young girlhood had, on rushing in, told Kathlyn what a
grand chap John was; and all that town's young manhood had told John
similar things about Kathlyn. So, as this is a jumpy sort of a story,
anyway, why not skip months of happy ardor, and find how this tying of
an additional knot in our Mayor's family will turn out? You know that
Kathlyn don't think much of pomp or show, and such a big church ritual
as Nancy had is all right if you want it, but Kathlyn had fond thoughts
of just a small, parlor affair, with only a group of old chums; and
_no_ throwing of old boots, and "sharp food-grains," which work
downward, to scratch your back, or stick in your hair as stubbornly as
burrs.
"Such crazy doings," said Kathlyn, "always look foolish. It's odd how
anybody can follow up such antiquarian customs."
As Kathlyn's big night was drawing nigh, Lady Gadsby and Nancy had
constantly thought of a word synonymous with "woman", and that word is
"scrub." Which is saying that Gadsby's mansion was about to submit to
a gigantic scrubbing, painting, dusting, and so forth, so that Kathlyn
should start out on that ship of matrimony from a spic-span wharf. Just
why a woman thinks that a grain of dust in a totally inconspicuous spot
is such a catastrophic abnormality is hard to say; but if you simply
broach a thought that a grain of it _might_ lurk in back of a piano, or
up back of an oil painting, a flood of soap-suds will instantly burst
forth; and any man who can find any of his things for four days is a
clairvoyant, or a magician!