And taking Dora by the hand, they strolled down one of the beautiful walks until they came to a rustic arbor.
On looking within they discovered a little bent man of about fifty, with sharp black eyes and grizzly hair.
He looked up crossly as they entered, and demanded what they wanted, in a tone that made Dora shrink closer to Robert’s side.
“Are you Squire Moulton, sir?” asked Robert, respectfully.
“Yes, I’m Squire Moulton. What is it?” he replied sarcastically mimicking the boy’s manner.
“We’ve come to be married; that’s what we want,” said Dora, smartly, at the same time snapping her large eyes angrily at him.
“Come to be married, indeed! Ha! ha! ha!”
The little gray-headed old man went off into a paroxysm of laughter that made the echoes ring all over the grounds, while his evil black eyes glowed with the intensity of his merriment.
“And pray,” he continued, when he could find breath to speak, and looking amusedly at the youthful pair before him, “who are you, and what may be the names of the parties who wish to assume the hymeneal yoke?”
And he laughed again.