“I’m going to have you for my sweetheart,” said Tommy, suddenly, as he stepped back with his hands behind him, contentedly surveying a rickety-looking wreath of dogwood blossoms that he had put upon Miss Letty’s golden hair, but which would slip down over her eyes. “I think that you are much nicer than Pinkie Scott and Bess and Grace.”
“And who are they, pray?” said Miss Letty, peering through the wreath.
“Oh, they are the others I play with, little girls—all alike, but you are several kinds.”
“You mustn’t say, ‘I’m going to have you,’ in such a way,” said Miss Letty, struggling to be serious; “you must go down on your knees in the dirt and ask me very politely.”
“No,” said Tommy, sturdily, “I won’t. I don’t mind the dirt; but if you ask, people mostly say you mustn’t; but if you say you’re going to, you oftener get it.”
Miss Letty looked up quite surprised at his reasoning and said: “Very well, play I’m your sweetheart. What next?”
“Why, then I must bring you up a present every Sunday just like Baldy does to Miss Jule’s Anna Maria. But, Miss Letty, how long will you be my sweetheart? For ever and ever?”
“That’s too long to promise, Tommy. How will until you want to give me to some one else do?”
“First rate; just listen! those dogs must have struck a good trail down below there; hear them yell. I guess I’ll go and see,” and he quickly disappeared around the hill.
“I can now untie Hamlet,” called Miss Letty to Anne, going to the tree where she had left him; but Hamlet was not there, neither was the sash ribbon.