Mrs. Lee in great displeasure asked Betty if she really supposed “that she had lost her senses, that she should for one minute be induced to credit such idle trash.” Betty however, kept her ground, and repeated her opinions with a tenacity that surprised me. Bill still continued to entreat. Nancy hid her face in her hands, and burst into tears. Mrs. Lee scolded, and Betty solemnly shaking her head, declared she “had her knowledge from one who would not lie.”
Feeling my presence, in the existing circumstances, rather an incumbrance, I rose to take leave. This I did, just as Bill was blowing a coal in order to light a candle, and Betty was beginning to shuffle her cards.
Some particular business of my own, prevented me for a few days from inquiring into the civil and domestic relations of the House of Lee. I saw however, that my friend Bill was still in action. Indeed he seemed more busy than ever. How the boy sustained such a constant course of riding and running, of chopping and lugging, of cattle-driving and hog-feeding, with numerous other et ceteras, all generally terminating—of late—in an excursion to “Huckle-berry” wood, I could scarcely imagine.
Wishing one morning to speak to my hostess, I went to the kitchen; secure of finding her there,—that being the seat of empire, with a good New-England house-wife. For once, however, I was disappointed; but there sat Bill. Returned from some nameless excursion, he was eating a late breakfast. It was rather picturesque. His naked feet, stained by the soil through which he had lately plodded, were raised upon the cross piece of his chair—his knees appearing through two very unnecessary apertures in his nether garment—his ragged hat lying on the floor at his feet, and two large house-dogs seated on the ground—one on each side, watching with eager interest each morsel that he conveyed to his lips.
I have said that I was somewhat anxious on the score of Bill’s health; but when I saw the devotion with which he applied himself to his hashed pork and potatoes, and the complacency with which from time to time he eyed a smoking dish of pumpkin-pudding which stood close at his elbow, waiting his acceptance, I comforted myself with the belief that the means and appliances with which he strengthened his inward man, would abundantly enable him to sustain the labors which heaven had allotted to his share.
We had long been the best of friends, and perfectly understood each other. He looked up at me with his laughing grey eyes.
“Our Nance is going to be married.”
“You don’t say so—Bill, are you in earnest?”
Bill nodded, for by this time his mouth was again full, and he could not speak. He took a draught of cider from the great brown jug on the table. “Yes, it’s true enough.”
“And to whom is she to be married?”