When the parson bluntly demanded this of us, we stood staring open-mouthed at one another, a pair of zanies. I pursued a bold course, however. To give our own was out of the question in that public place, and more particularly as the newspaper had just acquainted the reverend gentleman of my black history. Therefore, says I, with an impudent assurance:
"John Smith and Jane Jones."
"How truly national!" says the officiating clergyman in a rapture of sentiment. "How exquisitely English are these names, to be sure!"
I durst not look at my poor little Cynthia. But somehow I felt that she was trembling and deadly pale, and ready to sink to the ground under this humiliation to her native delicacy. I fear that I was of a much coarser grain. I had suffered too much from the world already to be easily bowed with a sense of shame. "Needs must when the devil drives," was a good enough motto for me. We were in a pretty tight corner, and if we ever came out of it at all, we must expect to lose a little of our tender skins in doing so.
My little one was most monstrous brave. Having recovered the possession of herself, she set her teeth and went through the thing gallantly. I'faith she was of a good mettle. In spite of Mrs. Blodgett's opinion of my worth, my little miss answered the all-important query in such a clear affirmative voice as never was heard, and entered into vows of a sort that argued some degree of rashness on her part. Even at the time I was inclined to raise a doubt of her ability to be the equal of them. Nor hath aught subsequently transpired to cause me to forego this estimate of the matter. When we had been duly put through these trials, we were led into the vestry to write our names in the marriage register.
"Oh, Jack," whispers Cynthia, as we went, "whatever shall we do? I am sure it cannot be legal."
"I am sure I don't know," says I. "What a folly of mine not to have thought of it sooner!"
"It was my place to think of it," says Cynthia. "The folly is mine."
"No, not at all," says I. "What have you to do with it, a chit as you are? The folly is mine, I tell you."
"Then I tell you it's not," says Cynthia flatly, and stamping her petulant shoe on the very steps of the altar.