"Billy, I love you so, that if there is a God, I will thank Him all my life for this week and the thought of you." "You may not," said Billy, "when we have been married a year." "We can’t marry, dear. Don’t you understand? I am a tramp." "And so am I." "Your father will kick me out when he knows—" "It’s none of my father’s business," said Billy with a saucy tilt of her small chin. "He’s marrying whom he pleases and I shall do the same." "Wait until I speak to him—" "No," said Billy promptly. "I will speak, Jerry. Promise me that you won’t say a thing until we get to the town where we can telegraph. Oh, Jerry, my love, promise me." "I promise, Billy, kid." "Promise you won’t say a thing until I speak." "I won’t say a thing until I can’t help it, but what good will that do?" "Let’s be happy while we can," returned Billy, with a pretty evasion. "We have one more day." "Oh, Billy," whispered the Watermelon. Billy turned and led the way up the path to the house while the Watermelon picked up the two suit-cases and followed her. At the house they found the general with his usual inability to conceal a thing, explaining that they had no money, but wished to have a two-seated team and a driver to take them to the nearest town. The farmer did not hail the proposition with unalloyed joy. He looked thoughtfully from one to the other while Bartlett explained earnestly who he was, who the general was, who they all were, in a vain attempt to undo the general’s commendable, if mistaken, frankness. Upon promising to let the driver keep his watch as a guaranty of good faith, to be returned when the money they were to telegraph for arrived, Bartlett persuaded the man to give in and go to the barn for the horses. Billy drew her father aside, while the general, Henrietta and the Watermelon retired discreetly to the well for a drink. "Father," said Billy, coming directly to the point and evading it with a skill that befitted her father’s daughter. "Jerry wants to marry me. Oh, father, I love him so. I love him as much as you do Henrietta." Bartlett flushed and dismissed Henrietta from the conversation. "My dear Billy, you have only known him a week." "I know, father," agreed Billy, "but a week is long enough to fall in love in. Truly, it is, father. And we both care so much, so very much." Bartlett was secretly elated at the idea. He and Batchelor, with their differences reconciled, fighting together, instead of each other, would become rulers of the Street, could attain to any height. Batchelor was young, clever, lovable. There seemed nothing to object to. But he felt that he should. Conventionality, Henrietta, Mrs. Grundy, one or all would clearly see that there was something wrong, would counsel delay, waiting. He had never given a daughter away in marriage and was not sure what to do. He hemmed and hawed and wished that he could consult Henrietta.