"_The_ day." "I'll name them all: Monday, Tuesday--" "Ah, Lord--" "Barbee, I'm going to sing you a love song--an old, old, old love song. Did you ever hear one?" "I have been hearing mine for some time." "This goes back to grandmother's time. But it's the man's song: you ought to be singing it to me." "I shall continue to sing my own." Marguerite began to sing close to Barbee's ear: "I'll give to you a paper of pins, If that's the way that love begins, If you will marry me, me, me, If you will marry me." "Pins!" said Barbee; "why, that old-time minstrel must have been singing when pins were just invented. You can have--" Marguerite quieted him with a finger on his elbow: "I'll give to you a dress of red, Bound all around with golden thread, If you will marry me, me, me, If you will marry me." "How about a dress not simply bound with golden thread but made of it, made of nothing else! and then hung all over with golden ornaments and the heaviest golden utensils?" Marguerite sang on: "I'll give to you a coach and six, Every horse as black as pitch, If you will marry me, me, me, If you will marry me." "I'll make it two coaches and twelve white ponies." Marguerite sang on, this time very tenderly: "I'll give to you the key of my heart, That we may love and never part, If you will marry me, me, me, If you will marry me." "No man can give anything better," said Barbee, moving closer (as close as possible) and looking questioningly full into Marguerite's eyes. Marguerite glanced up and down the street. The moment was opportune, the disposition of the universe seemed kind. The big parasol slipped a little lower. "Marguerite. . . Please, Marguerite. . . _Marguerite_." The parasol was suddenly pulled down low and remained very still a moment: then a quiver ran round the fringe. It was still again, and there was another quiver. It swayed to and fro and round and round, and then stood very, very still indeed, and there was a violent quiver. Then Marguerite ran into the library as out of a sudden shower; and Barbee with long slow strides returned to his office. "Anna," said Professor Hardage, laying his book across his knee as they sat that afternoon in the shady side porch, "I saw Marguerite this morning and she sent her compliments. They were very pretty compliments. I sometimes wonder where Marguerite came from--out of what lands she has wandered." "Well, now that you have stopped reading," said Miss Anna, laying down her work and smoothing her brow (she never spoke to him until he did stop--perfect woman), "that Is what I have been waiting to talk to you about: do you wish to go with Harriet to Marguerite's ball?" "I most certainly do not wish to go with Harriet to Marguerite's ball," he said, laughing, "I am going with you." "Well, you most certainly are not going with me: I am going with Harriet." "Anna!"