Widow. "O, Mr. Crane, egscuse my commotion, it's so onexpected. Jest hand me that are bottle of camfire off the mantletry shelf—I'm ruther faint—dew put a little mite on my handkercher and hold it to my nuz. There—that'll dew—I'm obleeged tew ye—now I'm ruther more composed—you may perceed, Mr. Crane."
Mr. Crane. "Well, widder, I was a-going to ask you whether—whether——"
Widow. "Continner, Mr. Crane—dew—I knew it's turrible embarrissin'. I remember when my dezeased husband made his suppositions to me he stammered and stuttered, and was so awfully flustered it did seems as if he'd never git it out in the world, and I s'pose it's ginnerally the case, at least it has been with all them that's made suppositions to me—you see they're ginerally oncerting about what kind of an answer they're a-gwine to git, and it kind o' makes 'em narvous. But when an individdiwal has reason to suppose his attachment's reperated, I don't see what need there is o' his bein' flustrated—tho' I must say it's quite embarrassin' to me—pray continner."
Mr. C. "Well, then, I want to know if yu're willing I should have Melissy?"
Widow. "The dragon!"
Mr. C. "I hain't said anything to her about it yet—thought the proper way was to get your consent first. I remember when I courted Trypheny, we were engaged some time before mother Kenipe knew anything about it, and when she found it out she was quite put out because I dident go to her first. So when I made up my mind about Melissy, thinks me, I'll dew it right this time and speak to the old woman first——"
Widow. "Old woman, hey! That's a purty name to call me!—amazin' perlite, tew! Want Melissy, hey! Tribbleation! Gracious sakes alive! Well, I'll give it up now! I always know'd you was a simpleton, Tim Crane, but I must confess I dident think you was quite so big a fool! Want Melissy, dew ye? If that don't beat all! What an everlastin' old calf you must be to s'pose she'd look at you. Why, you're old enough to be her father, and more tew—Melissy ain't only in her twenty-oneth year. What a reedickilous idee for a man o' your age! as gray as a rat, tew! I wonder what this world is a-comin' tew: 'tis astonishin' what fools old widdiwers will make o' themselves! Have Melissy! Melissy!"
Mr. C. "Why, widder, you surprise me. I'd no idee of being treated in this way after you'd been so polite to me, and made such a fuss over me and the girls."
Widow. "Shet yer head, Tim Crane—nun o' yer sass to me. There's yer hat on that are table, and here's the door—and the sooner you put on one and march out o' t'other, the better it'll be for you. And I advise you afore you try to git married agin, to go out West and see 'f yet wife's cold—and arter ye're satisfied on that pint, jest put a little lampblack on yer hair—'twould add to yer appearance undoubtedly, and be of sarvice tew you when you want to flourish round among the gals—and when ye've got yer hair fixt, jest splinter the spine o' yerback—'twould'n' hurt yer looks a mite—you'd be intirely unresistible if you was a leetle grain straiter."
Mr. C. "Well, I never!"