“I then turned to my writing, and soon after he slipped a bit of paper on to my writing-desk: ‘Will you go with me as missionary to the West?’ A few minutes after my cousin finished his studies for the evening and went to bed. Then some few short questions ensued and a few shorter answers not necessary to repeat. But, as the embarrassment consequent upon such abrupt and unexpected questions had somewhat diminished, he urged a more decided, definite answer from me personally. Simply referring him to my parents did not satisfy him, so I quietly remarked: ‘Why! I can’t sing, and only a short time since you said you would never marry a woman who could not sing!’ ‘Oh! that was six months ago, and I have changed my mind.’ ‘And in six months from now you may change it again.’ ‘No! I did change it the very minute you said that night that you never sang. There is no fear of my changing again.’ “The next day, Sabbath, uncle’s horse shied going to church, and tipped us all out of the sleigh; and Henry was so anxious to know if I were hurt, paying no attention to others, that he awakened uncle’s suspicions. “That week at the week-day evening meeting (Preparatory Lecture) Henry was called to speak, and did wonderfully well, to the great surprise of all who heard that ‘young lad.’ After that, while he stayed at Whitingsville, he spoke at almost all the evening meetings, and always with increasing surprise and acceptance. I do not remember your father’s alluding to those meetings but once, and that, I think, was to an English friend who called when we lived on ‘The Heights.’ He said, smiling: ‘Whitingsville was my first pastorate. While teaching there one winter I spoke there several times and in some other places near by.’ “The next Saturday after giving me that momentous question on that little slip of paper, Henry rode to West Sutton and spoke to father and mother, to their infinite surprise. Mother was grieved, but father was very angry. ‘Why, you are a couple of babies! You don’t know your own minds yet, and won’t for some years to come,’ he repeated over and over again. (_Fifty-seven_ years have given ample proof that we did.) But father was grieved, mortified, angry that he should have been so blind. But who could resist your father when he pleaded in earnest? Mother often spoke of it long after we were married. She said it was wonderful how he swayed that strong, proud man, my father, who winced at being outgeneralled by a boy. His extremely youthful appearance perfectly blinded them both. But mother was soon only a listener, charmed by the modest, manly, earnest manner, illumined occasionally by flashes of humor, with which he opened his heart to father and finally overcame him. From the first Henry’s youth and the long engagement was father’s only objection, and the fear that, as he grew older, he would repent of such imprudence.