She was too friendly, and yet I would have her friendly: she was too cheerful, and yet I would have her cheerful. I bethink me that I would rather that her friendliness and cheerfulness might in a measure depend upon me for existence. I think I came too often to friend Hicks's house, although he understood me. "Thee is a most persistent young man," he said to me. "Does thee think too much so?" I asked. "Nay, friend Biddle: persistency is an excellent quality which is most praiseworthy in youth." "And does thee think that persistency will gain me a wife?" "Thee had better depend upon thyself more than upon persistency in such an issue," he said, with the corners of his mouth much depressed. "Does thee think I might venture to offer myself to thy daughter for a husband?" "Nay. A husband never offers himself to his wife: the gift should be so valuable that she would willingly exchange herself for it." "Will thy daughter think so?" "Undoubtedly." "May I be emboldened to ask her?" "Thy mind must tell thee better than my lips," he said. Then I watched him going down among the trees and the shadows, and I sat, much perturbed in spirit, waiting for Barbara. When she did come I had not one word to say. I only remember that I sat with one leg crossed over the other, and wished I could perchance cross the right one over the left instead of the left over the right, and yet I had not the power to do so. I was sure my brain was playing me false, for things seemed utterly at variance with possibilities. "Thee seems shaken, friend Biddle," said she. "Nay," I responded. "Thee certainly is. I trust thy business is prospering, and that thy mind is not set too much upon any one thing." "Nay." "Can I do anything for thee?" "Nay." So I could not say one word. Friend Barbara took up her knitting, and I saw that she was rounding the heel of a stocking; and I trust I am truthful, if volatile, when I remember me that I wished I were her knitting-needle. She was very quiet: her ball of yarn slipped away, lacking proper gravitation. "My!" said she, and went and fetched it. "Has thee ill news from thy people?" she asked, rather restive under my changelessness. "They are happily easy," said I. Then she was quiet. I bethought me that I had my hat in my hand, and would rise to put it upon my head and say farewell, but I could not. "Thee does not seem so comfortable as thee might be," said she. "I am comfortable," I said. Then her yarn rolled away again. Again she said, "My!" and fetched it. "Is thee waiting for father?" she asked. "Nay," said I. I think she grew more restive under the silence: I arose. "Farewell," said I. "Farewell," said she; and the dints in her cheeks were extreme: they were the only dints about her, everything else being so prim and gray and well-ordered, while these were--quite different. Her father came in just then. I went boldly to him. "Friend Hicks," I said very loud, "will thee ask thy daughter to marry me?"