“Euphemia,” said I, in as composed a tone as possible, although my whole frame was trembling with emotion, “Euphemia, I am glad I married you!”
Had it not been Sunday, we would have set up our tent that night.
Early the next morning, old John's fifteen-dollar horse drew from our house a wagon-load of camp-fixtures. There was some difficulty in getting the wagon over the field, and there were fences to be taken down to allow of its passage; but we overcame all obstacles, and reached the camp-ground without breaking so much as a teacup. Old John helped me pitch the tent, and as neither of us understood the matter very well, it took us some time. It was, indeed, nearly noon when old John left us, and it may have been possible that he delayed matters a little so as to be able to charge for a full half-day for himself and horse. Euphemia got into the wagon to ride back with him, that she might give some parting injunctions to Pomona.
“I'll have to stop a bit to put up the fences, ma'am,” said old John, “or Misther Ball might make a fuss.”
“Is this Mr. Ball's land?” I asked.
“Oh yes, sir, it's Mr. Ball's land.”
“I wonder how he'll like our camping on it?” I said, thoughtfully.
“I'd 'a' thought, sir, you'd 'a' asked him that before you came,” said old John, in a tone that seemed to indicate that he had his doubts about Mr. Ball.
“Oh, there'll be no trouble about that,” cried Euphemia. “You can drive me past Mr. Ball's,—it's not much out of the way,—and I'll ask him.”
“In that wagon?” said I. “Will you stop at Mr. Ball's door in that?”