“Some apostolic minister, I fancy. You pious creatures always like to adore a parson. But all we know are married.”
“He isn't.”
“Give a name, for pity's sake I'm suffering tortures of suspense,” begged Charlie.
“Alexander Campbell.”
“Uncle? Well, upon my word, that's a relief, but mighty absurd all the same. So, when you find a young saint of that sort, you intend to marry him, do you?” demanded Charlie much amused and rather disappointed.
“When I find any man half as honest, good, and noble as Uncle, I shall be proud to marry him if he asks me,” answered Rose decidedly.
“What odd tastes women have!” And Charlie leaned his chin on his hand to muse pensively for a moment over the blindness of one woman who could admire an excellent old uncle more than a dashing young cousin.
Rose, meanwhile, tied up her parcels industriously, hoping she had not been too severe, for it was very hard to lecture Charlie, though he seemed to like it sometimes and came to confession voluntarily, knowing that women love to forgive when the sinners are of his sort.
“It will be mail time before you are done,” she said presently, for silence was less pleasant than his rattle.
Charlie took the hint and dashed off several notes in his best manner. Coming to the business letter, he glanced at it and asked, with a puzzled expression: “What is all this? Cost of repairs, etc., from a man named Buffum?”