"_I_ should think any way to please people was a good way," retorted Sally, saying more with her eyes than with her voice,--so much more, that in fact this fly was fast. A little puff of wind blew off Sally's bonnet; she looked shy, flushed, lovely. George stood up on his feet, and took his hat off. "Sally!" said he, in the deepest notes of his full, manly voice, "I love you very much indeed; will you be my wife?" Sally was confounded. I rejoice to say she was quite confounded; but she was made of revolutionary stuff, and what just now interfered with her plans and schemes was the sudden discovery how very much indeed she loved George Tucker; a fact she had not left enough margin for in her plot. But, as I said, she was made of good metal, and she answered very low,-- "I do like you, George; but I never will marry a Britisher and a Tory." A spasm of real anguish distorted the handsome face, bent forward to listen. "Do you mean that, Sally? Can't you love me because we don't think alike?" Sally choked a little; her tones fell to a whisper. George had to sit down close to her to hear. "I didn't say I didn't love you, George!"--A blissful pause of a second; then in a clear, cold voice,--"But my mind's set. I can't marry a Britisher and a Tory, if I died sayin' so." George gasped. "And I cannot turn traitor and rebel, Sally. I can _not_. I love you better than any thing in the world; but I can't do a wicked thing; no, not even for you." He was pale as death. Sally's secret heart felt proud of him, and never had she been so near repenting of her work in the good cause before; but she was resolute. "Very well!" replied she, coolly, "if you prefer the king to me, it's not my fault; when your side beats, you can take your revenge!" The thorough injustice of this speech roused her lover's generous indignation. "If you can think that way of me, Sally, it is better for us both to have me go! Good night!" And away strode the loyal fellow, never looking back to see his sweetheart have a good cry on the pine-log, and then an equally comfortable fit of laughter; for she knew very well how restless Mister George would be, all alone by himself, and how much it meant that they both loved each other, and both knew it. Sally's heart was stout. A sort of Yankee Evangeline, she would not have gone after Gabriel; she would have staid at home and waited for him to the end of time; doing chores and mending meanwhile, but unmarried, in the fixed intention of being her lover's sixth wife possibly, but his wife at last. So she went home and got supper, strained and skimmed milk, set a sponge for bread, and slept all night like a dormouse. George Tucker never went to bed.