"I am told Mr. Jarney has cleaned out the gang that helped Monroe in his dirty work--that's what becomes of not being faithful to your job, like I've always been, Mr. Dieman," moralized Eli. "Say, did I tell you about seeing May's sister at the Jarneys?" "No; do tell me about it?" "Well, I saw her, that's all; and spoke to her, that's all--and my! she's poorty; but I'll stick to May." "If I let you," said Peter, squinting his eyes, with a funny little twinkle mixed in their movements. "Why, I came this very night to ask you, Mr. Dieman," said Eli, as an opener to his subject. "Really, Eli? Impossible!" "What's impossible?" asked Eli, disheartened at the word "impossible." "That you came for that purpose," said Peter with a smile. "I did, sir; indeed, I did, Mr. Dieman," responded Eli, with much feeling. "Well?" said Peter, with a bearish look. "May I have her?" blurted out Eli, as he snapped a piece of imaginary lint from his angled knee with the index finger of his right hand. "Is she willin', Eli?" asked Peter, changing his tone. "She is," he responded, firmly. "You've made fine progress, my boy; but you'll have to ask her moth--Kate--" turning his head as he shouted her name for his voice to carry to where that lady sat in the parlor, in the distance, surrounded by her squirming herd of youngsters--"come here!" Kate came, looking like a queen--in her "rags"--still bearing some of her old sorrows in her lean face, now reduced to a pleasanter tone by the artful hand of plenty. "This young man wants May; can you spare her?" said Peter, not giving Eli a show at performing that part of his simple playing in courtship. "I'll speak for him, Kate. He's a mighty good boy, and May might do a thousand times worse." Eli sat like a docile lamb before the altar of matrimonial sacrifice, humbly waiting his fate. Kate looked at him. He looked at Kate. Peter looked at both. All silent. Intense was Eli's emotions--so tense that he was like a pine board in the hot sun ready to warp with the intensity of the heat that perforated the skin on his brow, sending forth scalding globes of perspiration. "I re--I gu--how did you tell me to say it?" she said, turning to Peter for intelligence on the right word. "May," answered Peter, rubbing. "I may--no, that's not it," she said, appealing to him. "You may!" suggested Peter again. "You may, Mr. Jerey," she said, finally hitting upon the proper phrase that would express her answer.