Ernest freed his mind on the subject of weddings the following morning at the breakfast table.
“I shouldn’t mind the wedding,” he said thoughtfully between mouthfuls of buckwheat cakes and syrup, “but what a man wants a girl tagging round all the time for, I can’t see.”
Mrs. Morton looked horrified, and the doctor looked up from his paper long enough to ejaculate “What?” Chicken Little took up the cudgels: “I’d like to have Marian round every single minute. I wish she was going to live with us.”
“Oh, Marian’s all right, but I don’t want any girl dearyin’ me!” And Ernest relapsed into the buckwheats again.
“Jane,” called Mrs. Morton as the child was starting back to school one noon a few days after the wedding, “go by the postoffice on your way home and ask for the mail. There will probably be a letter from Frank or Marian on the afternoon train.”
“I will, Mother.” Chicken Little called back, but she came near forgetting it because she had something else on her mind. She never could keep two things on her mind at the same time successfully.