"Still, I'm not sure, Betty. There's something tells me not to be sure."
"Then, do 'ee listen hard to me, my dear, while I tell 'ee what I do think about life. Life! 'Tis a garden and 'tis a wilderness, and between them there's a gaäte and 'tis a kissing gaäte. The wilderness is fine for children—a great open plaäce fit for scampering Jack hares and such like, but bare enough and bleak enough when you do grow old, and then you're too fat to get through that kissing gaäte, and then you do wish wi' all your might and main that when you was young you'd gotten into the garden among the sweet flowers."
Betty stopped, exhausted by the allegory.
"Yes, Betty, that is all very well, but you must go through the gate with the person whom you love for ever and a day."
"Nay, you can meet him inside and say Good-day and thank you kindly to the arm you went in on."
"I don't believe you give me good advice. If I told you that to-morrow morning I was going to run away with Mr. Amor to Gretna Green, what would you say?"
"Oh, God preserve you from the wicked thought, Gretna Green or any other such unlawful heathenish village green!"
"There you see," complained Phyllida, "you do not take me seriously, and it was foolish of me ever to tell you about this evening. But now that I have told you, you must never breathe a word to a living soul—never—never—promise!
"I do promise," said Betty.
"With the old rhyme—till Christmas—you remember?"