“We will be married to-morrow and—”
“Next month,” she suggested timidly.
“To-morrow, I tell you!”
“Next week,” she answered.
“To-morrow! To-morrow! To-morrow!” cried the Major, happy as a schoolboy.
“Next Sunday night after church,” pleaded Miss Minerva.
“No, not next Sunday or Monday or Tuesday. We will be married to-morrow,” declared the dictatorial Confederate veteran.
Billy's aunt succumbed.
“Oh, Joseph,” she said with almost a simper, “you are so masterful.”
“How would you like me for an uncle?” Miss Minerva's affianced asked Billy a few minutes later.