“You have real taste—that’s what you have,” he said admiringly.
“It’s so dear of you to give me what I want.”
“It’s my wedding-present to you, sweetheart; and Mother and the girls are giving you sheets and table linen, so reckon we’ll be well set up in our housekeeping.”
She drowsed against him, her head on his shoulder, her arm across his knees. He put his mouth to her ear.
“My sweet,” he murmured—“my little sweet—when is it going to be?”
“I’ve told you, Ben. At the beginning of January.”
“That’s your faithful word?”
“My faithful word.”
“I’m glad—for oh, my dearest, it seems I’ve waited long enough.”
“It won’t seem so very long now—and, Ben, I’ve made up my mind about one thing. I’m not going to tell the family till it’s all over.”