“Content!” cried Kate, with conviction. “Not him! Fine I ken him! He'll want to kiss me, as sure as God's in heaven—beg your pardon.”
“I expect that's not a thing you should say to me,” said Bud, blushing deeply.
“But I begged your pardon,” said the maid.
“I don't mean that about God in heaven, that's right—so He is, or where would we be?—what I meant was about the kissing. I'm old enough for love, but I'm not old enough for you to be talking to me about kissing, I guess Auntie Ailie wouldn't like to have you talk to me about a thing like that, and Auntie Bell, she'd be furious—it's too advanced.”
“What time am I to see him?” asked Kate.
“In the morning. If you go out to the garden just after breakfast, and whistle, he'll look over the wall.”
“The morning!” cried the maid, aghast. “I couldn't face him in the morning. Who ever heard of such a thing? Now you have gone away and spoiled everything! I could hardly have all my wits about me even if it was only gloaming.”
Bud sighed despairingly. “Oh, you don't understand, Kate,” said she. “He wanted it to be the evening, too, but I said you weren't a miserable pair of owls, and the best time for anything is the morning. Uncle Dan says the first half-hour in the morning is worth three hours at any other time of the day, for when you've said your prayers, and had a good bath, and a clean shave, and your boots new on—no slippers nor slithery dressing-gowns—the peace of God and—and—and the assurance of strength and righteousness descends upon you so that you—you—you can tackle wild-cats. I feel so brash and brave myself in the morning I could skip the hills like a goat. It's simply got to be the morning, Kate MacNeill. That's when you look your very best, if you care to take a little trouble, and don't simply just slouch through, and I'm set on having you see him first time over the garden wall. That's the only way to fix the thing up romantic, seeing we haven't any balcony. You'll go out and stand against the blossom of the cherry-tree, and hold a basket of flowers and parsley, and when he peeks over and sees you looming out the picture, I tell you he'll be tickled to death. That's the way Shakespeare 'd fix it, and he knew.”
“I don't think much of Shakespeare,” said Kate. “Fancy yon Igoa!”
“Iago, you mean. Well, what about him?”