“Tell me, Conn, tell me that you are mine, come life or death. Surely you would not have sought me here if you had not meant it to be so! You are my Conn,—tell me so.”
And I suppose Conn satisfied him, for two years after that she was his wife, and last night he gave the old pistol of that first Fourth of July to a young ten-year-old Jack Richmond to practise with for this year’s Fourth; and pretty Mother Conn, as fair still as in her girlhood, remonstrated, as gentle mothers will, with,—
“Oh Jack, surely he is too young for such a dangerous plaything.”
Father Jack laughed as he lifted little Conn to his knee, and answered,—
“Nonsense, sweetheart. He is a soldier’s boy, and a little pistol-shooting won’t hurt him.”
But how noisy it will be round that house on Fourth of July!