"Oh, no," answered Milly, laughing gleefully at his sally, which to her present mood seemed the most exquisite wit. "You needn't be afraid; it's only the matronship of the new Knitting School, thank you, with a salary of five hundred dollars a year."
"Really, Milly?"
"Really, John; and don't you think"—
"Think what?"
She had made up her mind to say it even before this blessed agreement had come about, but now that the moment came, the habits and trammels of generations held her back.
"Why," she stammered, blushing and hesitating, "don't you think,—wouldn't it seem more appropriate if a matron was"—Her voice failed utterly. She flung her arms convulsively about her lover's neck, and drew his ear close to her lips. "Surely, now, John, dear," she whispered, "we could afford to"—
She finished with a kiss.
"If you can put up with me, darling," he answered her, with a mighty hug; "we'll be married in a week, or, better still, in a day."
"I think in a month will do," responded Mistress Milly, demurely, sitting up to blush with decorum.