“South o’ Belle Isle.”
“Ah!”
The doctor was much amused—my sister hardly less so. They watched me with laughing eyes. And they heartlessly abandoned me to my own conversational devices: which turned me desperate.
“Is you goin’ t’ get married?” I demanded.
My sister blushed—and gave me an arch glance from behind her long, dark lashes. But—
“We are not without hope,” the doctor answered, calmly, “that the Bishop will be on our coast next summer.”
“I’m glad,” I observed, “that you’ve both come t’ your senses.”
“Oh!” cried my sister.
“Ecod!” the doctor mocked.
“Ay,” said I, with a wag. “I is that!”