“I ain't broke to this kind o' thing,” he said, “an' I'm scairt clear through. Maybe it could be put off until I'm nerved up a little.”
“No, indeed,” said Jo, as she locked the door and faced about with a saucy look in her eyes. “You've simply got to be married at ten o'clock. You might as well make up your mind to it first as last. You've kept Fannie waiting for three years, and now you're going to be married.”
Poor Sam shook his head and smiled, and looked rather foolish and unhappy.
“You needn't be afraid,” Jo went on. “We're not going to hurt you. We're just going to marry you, and I should think you'd be very happy. Fannie is a good girl, and a sweet-look-, ing girl, too, and she'll be a help to you.”
It was as good as a play to hear her talk to him. Sam had an anxious look, and was, in a way, like one condemned.
“I'd like,” said he, with just a little emphasis on the like—“I'd like to go over to the village a minute.”
“I'm sorry, but there isn't time,” Jo answered. She was gentle but firm.
“I'm no coward,” he said, in a voice that trembled a little, “but—I ain't used to women.”
“Poor thing!” said Jo, with just a touch of contempt for him. “You've got to get used to them, and I'll give you the first lesson. Stand where you are.”
Fannie, a comely, red-cheeked girl of about his age, had entered the room. Jo took her arm and led her up to Sam.