“Huldy was a gal of spirit, and she despised the talk, but it made her drefful uncomfortable; and when she got home at night she sat down in the mornin’-glory porch, quite quiet, and didn’t sing a word. “The minister he had heard the same thing from one of his deakins that day; and when he saw Huldy so kind o’ silent, he says to her, ‘Why don’t you sing, my child?’ “He hed a pleasant sort o’ way with him, the minister had, and Huldy had got to likin’ to be with him; and it all come over her that perhaps she ought to go away; and her throat kind o’ filled up so she couldn’t hardly speak; and, says she, ‘I can’t sing to-night.’ “Says he, ‘You don’t know how much good your singin’ has done me, nor how much good you have done me in all ways, Huldy. I wish I knew how to show my gratitude.’ “‘Oh, sir!’ says Huldy, ‘_is_ it improper for me to be here?’ “‘No, dear,’ says the minister, ‘but ill-natured folks will talk; but there is one way we can stop it, Huldy—if you’ll marry me. You’ll make me very happy, and I’ll do all I can to make you happy. Will you?’ “Wal, Huldy never told me just what she said to the minister; gals never does give you the particulars of them ’are things jist as you’d like ’em—only I know the upshot, and the hull on’t was, that Huldy she did a consid’able lot o’ clear starchin’ and ironin’ the next two days; and the Friday o’ next week the minister and she rode over together to Dr. Lothrop’s, in Oldtown; and the doctor, he jist made ’em man and wife.” _Harriet Beecher Stowe._ ------------------------------------------------------------------------ _ALBINA McLUSH._ [Illustration: “I PRESSED THE COOL, SOFT FINGERS TO MY LIPS.”] I HAVE a passion for fat women. If there is anything I hate in life, it is what dainty people call a _spirituelle_. Motion—rapid motion—a smart, quick, squirrel-like step, a pert, voluble tone—in short, a lively girl—is my exquisite horror. I would as lief have a _diable petit_ dancing his infernal hornpipe on my cerebellum as to be in a room with one. I have tried before now to school myself into liking these parched peas of humanity. I have followed them with my eyes, and attended to their rattle till I was as crazy as a fly in a drum. I have danced with them, and romped with them in the country, and perilled the salvation of my “white tights,” by sitting near them at supper. I swear off from this moment. I do. I won’t—no—hang me if ever I show another small, lively, _spry_ woman a civility.