"More than three months ago!" she repeated with incisive emphasis. "Now maybe you'll listen to me while I tell you what I know about Philura Rice!"
But the lady had reckoned without her host. The Rev. Silas arose to his feet with decision. "I certainly will not listen to anything derogatory to Miss Rice," he said sternly. "She is my promised wife, you will remember." With that the prudent minister beat a hasty retreat, to entrench himself without apology or delay in the inner fastnesses of the parsonage.
Miss Electa rolled her greenish orbs about the chamber of learning with a thoughtful smile. "If Philura Rice ain't crazy," she said aloud; "an' I guess she ain't far from it. She's told a wicked lie! In either case, it's my Christian duty to see this thing put a stop to!"
That evening after service Miss Philura, her modest cheeks dyed with painful blushes, confessed to her promised husband that she had indeed announced her intentions of matrimony some three months previous. "I wanted somebody to—to love me," she faltered; "somebody in particular, you know; and—and I asked God to give me—a—a husband. After I had asked, of course I believed that I had. He—he was already in the encircling Good, you know, or I should not have wanted him! When Electa asked me point blank, what could I say without—without denying—God?"
The brave voice faltered more than once during this recital; and finally broke down altogether when the Rev. Silas Pettibone, his brown eyes shining, exclaimed in joyful yet solemn tones, "and God sent me!"
The encircling Good was perfectly manifest at that moment in the shape of two strong arms. Miss Philura rested in them and was glad.