“I’m going to,” he replied. “But I say, Betsey,” he continued, half turning away his face.
“Yes, Bill.”
“Should—should—”
Mr William Forth Burge’s collar seemed to be very tight, for he thrust, one finger between it and his neck, and gave it a tug before continuing hoarsely—
“I never keep anything from you, Betsey?”
“No, Bill, you don’t. You always was a good brother.”
“Should—should you mind it much, Betsey, if I was to—to—get married?”
Little Miss Burge stood gazing at him silently for some minutes, and then she said softly—
“No, Bill; I don’t think I should. Not if it was some one nice, who would make you very happy.”
“She is very nice, and she would make me very happy,” he said slowly. “But, Betsey—my—dear—do—you—think—she’d—have me?”