At this point, dear reader, if you are a man, and happily neither blind, nor deaf, nor over eighty years of age, take Rube’s seat for a moment, at Mell’s feet. Let her tell you in the sweetest tones, that she cannot help believing in you strong—let her bend upon you a glance sweeter than the tones, stronger than the words, and then say, honestly, don’t you feel, as Rube did at this juncture, mighty queer?
Under the spell, her victim stirred—he lifted himself slowly toward her, inquiring in a low voice, but with intense energy:
“Melville, are you fooling me?”
“Fooling you!” she ejaculated, in soft reproach. “Would I fool you, Rube? Is that your opinion of me? You think, then—but tell me, Rube, why do you think so?—that those early days are less dear to me than to you—their memory less sweet?”
“I have thought so,” murmured he in great agitation, “because I have not dared to think otherwise—until now.”
And into his great soul there entered, then and there, the ineffable beatitude of the true believer.
Oh, wicked, wicked Mell! One little hour ago, and you had forgotten his very existence! Is the Recording Angel, who stands above your head up there, off duty, that you should dare to do it? Or, will it help your case in the day of reckoning, that deception foul as this, has been raised by clever women into the dignity of a fine art, and goes on among them all the while, as inexpugnable as an Act of Congress?
“Melville, I will run this race—run it to please you.”
“I knew you would! And believe me, Rube, nothing could please me more.”