“‘Norman Walter, son of Richard and Margaret May, High Street, Doctor of Medicine, December 21st, 18—. Thomas Ramsden.’”
“What is that for, Norman?” and, as he did not attend, she called Mary to share her speculations, and spell out the words.
“Ha!” cried Dr. May, “this is capital! The old doctor seems not to know how to say enough for you. Have you read it?”
“No, he only told me he had said something in my favour, and wished me all success.”
“Success!” cried Mary. “Oh, Norman, you are not going to sea too?”
“No, no!” interposed Blanche knowingly—“he is going to be married. I heard nurse wish her brother success when he was going to marry the washerwoman with a red face.”
“No,” said Mary, “people never are married till they are twenty.”
“But I tell you,” persisted Blanche, “people always write like this, in a great book in church, when they are married. I know, for we always go into church with Lucy and nurse when there is a wedding.”
“Well, Norman, I wish you success with the bride you are to court,” said Dr. May, much diverted with the young ladies’ conjectures.
“But is it really?” said Mary, making her eyes as round as full moons.