Maxwell smiled. “Old maids, and old bachelors, are pretty much alike. I know a few of the latter, that no woman on earth could make into regular human beings.”
“Oh, yes; old bachelors aren’t the nicest thing the Lord ever made. Most of ’em are mighty selfish critters, take ’em as they run; and a man that’s never had a real great love in his life doesn’t know what life is.”
“That’s quite true,” Donald responded, with such warmth that Mrs. Burke glanced at him suspiciously, and changed her tune, as she continued:
“Seems to me a parson, or any other man, is very foolish to marry before he can support a wife comfortably, and lay by somethin’ for a rainy day, though. The last rector had five babies and seventeen cents to feed ’em with. Yes, there were little olive branches on all four sides of the table, and under the table too. The Whittimores seemed to have their quiver full of ’em, as the psalmist says. Mrs. Whittimore used to say to me, ‘The Lord will provide,’—just to keep her courage up, poor thing! Well, I suppose the Lord did provide; but I had to do a lot of hustlin’, just 51 the same. No sir, if a parson marries, he better find a woman who has outgrown her short skirts. Young things dyin’ to be martyrs with a good lookin’ young parson, are a drug in the market. Better go slow.” And Hepsey looked up at him significantly.
“Then you think it would be inadvisable to propose to Miss Virginia immediately, do you?” Donald asked, as if humbly seeking guidance.
“Well, there doesn’t seem to be any immediate hurry about it. Now if you’ll open the gate to Thunder Cliff, I’ll be much obliged to you. If I don’t get my mind on something less romantic than Virginia, we shall have to dine off airy fancies—and that won’t suit Nickey, for one.”
