“And I want you to consent to this marriage,” sez I, “in a suitable time—when Alice gits old enough.”
“I won’t consent to it!” sez he—“the writer of them confounded papers never shall marry my daughter.”
“Why,” sez I, “there’s nothin’ harsh in the articles.” Sez I, “They’re only a strong appeal to the pity and justice of ’em who are responsible for all this danger and horrow!”
“Well,” sez he, “I’ve made up mind, and I never change it.”
Sez I, “I d’no whether you will or not.” Sez I, “This is a strange world, Martin, and folks are made to change their minds sometimes onbeknown to ’em.”
Wall, I didn’t stay more’n several days after this, when I returned to the peaceful precincts of Jonesville and my (sometimes) devoted pardner, and things resoomed their usual course.
But every few days I got communications from Martin’s folks. Alice writ to me sweet letters of affection, wherein I could read between the lines a sad background of Hope deferred and a achin’ heart.
And Adrian writ long letters to me, where the spellin’ left much to be desired, but the good feelin’ and love and confidence in ’em wuz all the most exactin’ could ask for.
And occasionally Martin would write a short line of a sort of hurried, patronizin’ affection, and the writin’ looked so much like ducks’ tracts that it seemed as if our old drake would have owned up to ’em in a law suit.
But Josiah and me would put on our strongest specks, and take the letter between us, and hold it in every light, and make out the heft on it.