“My mind is set on matrimony,” said the young man. “Tell it to get up an' move on,” said Mr. Pearl. “Are you in love?” I asked. “I fear that I am,” said Mr. McCarthy, with his accustomed frankness. “All depends on the other party,” said Mr. Pearl. “It's a beautiful girl by the name o' Betsey Fame,” the boy answered. “Better be Miss Fame than Misfortune,” said the Pearl of great price. “My trouble is all on account of this wooden leg,” Mr. McCarthy explained. “I saved her mother's life in a runaway an' got my ankle smashed. She took care o' me when I was laid up, and told me to study an' improve my mind and be a gentleman. I fell in love with her, and I'm getting along. But my gentleman has begun to crush the life out o' Pegleg McCarthy. He's killed my best hope, for he won't let me ask her to marry me. She's a wonderful nice girl, and belongs to a good family. But here's my wooden leg, and it comes o' my tryin' to save her mother. She might think she had ought to accept me whether she cares for me or not. She's just that kind of a girl. Do you think it's fair for me to ask her? I don't.” Pearl and I rested the paddles. Our playful spirit had gone out of us in a jiffy. “By the great horn spoon!” Pearl exclaimed. “Me being a gentleman, what can I do?” Mr. McCarthy inquired. “Well, first you go to New York an' get yourself a decent leg, if you can afford it,” said the Pearl of great price. “There's a man by the name o' Marks made a leg for a friend o' mine. He wears a shoe an' walks as well as ever. Ye wouldn't know that he had a wooden leg. It's a case o' wood an' wouldn't.” “That's a good idea,” said Mr. McCarthy. “Then you can tell her that you're really better off than you was before the accident--that you've only half the liability to pains in the feet. Go to work an' pile up some money, an' show her that nobody has any license to be sorry for you. Maybe you'll see your chance by-an'-by.” “I believe that I'm going to be a rich man,” said Mr. McCarthy. “I kind o' feel it in my bones.” “My bones are beginnin' to talk to me,” said the Pearl, as he moved in his seat a little. “We must begin to look for a camping-place.” The sun had gone down, and glowing bars of cloud were drifting over the west. Their reflection made a long, golden raft in the ripples. The raft seemed to break as I was looking, and its timber floated far and wide into dusky coves and marshes, and some of it went leaping through rapids half a mile below. As we rode along in the still twilight, Mr. Pearl sang an old ballad in a voice of remarkable power and sweetness. Well, the river and the shadows and the sky sang with him, as I am well aware, but no music ever got so deep in me as that did.