"Why—why—that is impossible, Rilla."
"Why?" briefly demanded the organizer of the Junior Red Cross and the transporter of babies in soup tureens.
"Why—why—we never thought of such a thing—Joe hasn't a license—I have no dress—I couldn't be married in black—I—I—we—you—you—" Miranda lost herself altogether and Sir Wilfrid, seeing that she was in dire distress threw back his head and emitted a melancholy yelp.
Rilla Blythe thought hard and rapidly for a few minutes. Then she said, "Miranda, if you will put yourself into my hands I'll have you married to Joe before four o'clock tomorrow afternoon."
"Oh, you couldn't."
"I can and I will. But you'll have to do exactly as I tell you."
"Oh—I—don't think—oh, father will kill me—"
"Nonsense. He'll be very angry I suppose. But are you more afraid of your father's anger than you are of Joe's never coming back to you?"
"No," said Miranda, with sudden firmness, "I'm not."
"Will you do as I tell you then?"