"I don't fret about the little things," said Ben. "We both like easy-chairs, and evenings at home, and reading about famous people, or queer people, and wonderful places. We both like a fire, and a cat; I adore a nice cat, it is such a comfortable thing. And we like to go out where people are bright and vivacious, and know something. We're fond of music, and pictures, and like a good play. Oh, there are things enough to agree upon all our lives; so what would be the use of hunting round to find a few things to dispute about."
"Why, there wouldn't be. But I want your mother to like me, and to feel sure I shall do my best to make you happy. Of course, we may not get rich."
"Bother riches! But I'm not going to give you up for anybody in Christendom."
"You are very sweet, Ben." There was a sound of tears in Delia's voice.
"I'll see what it is," subjoined Ben. "Oh, it will all come straight, I know."
"I shall not marry you for the next seven years, no, not for twenty, until everybody is willing," said Delia, decisively.
Why couldn't people be kindly affectioned one toward another, as the Apostle enjoined, when there was nothing very objectionable in the other? It puzzled Ben. He was passionately fond of his mother, too; but the issue had to be met. And the very next evening when Mrs. Underhill was out watering her garden, that had in it all manner of sweet herbs and the old-time flowers dear to her heart, Ben came wandering down the clean-cut path.
"Mother," when they had both stood silently several minutes,—"mother, I want to tell you—Delia Whitney and I are engaged."
"I supposed as much," said his mother, tartly. Then she turned to come up the path.
"Mother, you have welcomed Dolly and Cleanthe; and we have all been like brothers and sisters. Haven't you a tender word for Delia? You used to like her."