“Yes, that’s right enough—at least, I suppose so,” cried Miss Jamblin, who after this was lost for some time in reflection.
“I am the happiest man alive,” exclaimed John Ashbrook. “You are to have your own way in everything—that has been agreed upon.”
“Has it? I am glad to hear you say so, because, you see, we all like to have our way.”
“Ah, but you are not to be crossed in anything, and, to say the truth, darling, it is not at all likely you will be. I love you too much for that.”
“Promises are one thing——”
“And the performances of them are another—that’s what you were about to say.”
“You are very clever to be able to anticipate one’s thoughts,” said the farmer’s daughter, with a merry laugh, “but I think I may trust you.”
“Be assured you may. You will have no reason to repent of your choice, although I say it as should not say it, to make use of a common phrase.”
“I do not for a moment doubt it, John. I accept you with a right good will, and with all my heart.”
The young farmer embraced her fondly, and nothing now remained but for the happy day to be named.