“But you’re only a child—a very nice child, I admit—but to talk of holy matrimony in such a connection is—excuse my frankness—preposterous. People don’t marry little girls.”
But Matt did not consent to this proposition at all.
“I ain’t a little girl,” she affirmed with a decisive nod of the head. “I’m sixteen, and I’m growed up.”
The young man was amused, and could not refrain from laughing heartily. But the girl’s brow darkened as she watched him, and her under lip fell as if she would like to cry.
“If you go on laughing,” she said, “I’ll run straight back home, and never come here no more.”
“Well, I’ll try to keep my countenance; but the idea is very funny. Really, now? Don’t you see it in that light yourself?”
Certainly Matt did not, to judge from the expression of her face. She turned her head away; and Brinkley saw, to his surprise, that a tear was rolling down her cheek.
“Come, Matt,” he said kindly; “you mustn’t take this so seriously. Tell me all about it—there’s a good girl.”
“I will—if you won’t laugh.”
“I won’t then—there.”