“Then listen!” said Angelina.
“George, we are to be wedded in a month, are we not?”
“We are!” he cried exultantly; and again he essayed the “half Nelson,” and attempted to bury his nose in her mane.
“Don't get gay, George!” she said mournfully, as she broke George's lock, and gently but firmly pushed his bows off a point; “don't get funny! but hear me.”
“Go on,” said George, and his tones showed that his failure pierced him like a javelin. “We are to be wedded in a month. What then, lady?”
“George,” said Angelina McLaurin, and the tear-jewels shone in her eyes, “don't think me unwomanly, but you know how I am fixed;—father and mother both dead! I am an orphan, George, and must heel-and-handle myself.”
“Even so!” said George, and his face showed his sympathy.
“Then, George, before we take that step to the altar,” she went on steadily enough, but with a quaver in her voice which his ear, made sensitive by great love, did not fail to detect: “before we take that step, I say, from which there is no retreat, I must know certain things. You must make me certain promises.”
“Name them,” he whispered, and his deep voice overran her like a melody.