“You know I am an experienced hand in love-making, and its different phases,” she wrote, “while he is a mere baby;—actually stammered and blushed when he asked the important question, the _twenty-first_ put to me. I told him that, and I could see it staggered him a little, but he soon recovered and I do believe he is happy, while I respect him because he didn’t get down on his knees; he couldn’t very well in that narrow buggy, with Dido running away from a baby-cart. That was what happened, and maybe is the reason that he was so cold in his wooing. Didn’t even touch my hand, and it was lying where it would have been very convenient for him to take if he wanted to. He really acted as if I were a choice piece of pottery, not to be meddled with. On the whole it was a very matter-of-fact affair, something like this: _He_, after two or three coughs, and getting very red in the face, ‘Will you be my wife? Behave, Dido, what ails you?’ _She_, very much surprised, so much so in fact that without stopping to think, she replied, ‘Yes, if you wish it. I think it was the baby-cart that frightened Dido.’ “That’s about as it was, and we were engaged, and went at once to talking of the future,—or he did. Wished to be married by Christmas. But I said no. I must have one more winter in dear old New York before settling down as a model wife in stupid Boston. Of course I didn’t talk that way about Boston. But he is to wait until spring, when we are going to Europe, and you are going with us! I settled that at once. I could not stand a year’s travel alone with any man, with no right to look at another or let him look at me, and nobody to talk things over with. I began to feel lonesome until I thought of you, who always do me good. You know I am tricky and false and all that is mean that way. You found out more of it here than you knew before, and your great, pure, white soul rebelled against it, but I know you like me and I like you better than anybody in the world, except, of course, mother and Craig. He wants me to call him that, and——well, I’ll not enumerate my likes and dislikes. I want you to go with us, and Craig wants you, and you are going. So make your arrangements to give up that schoolhouse in the spring and see the old world, and help me through the British Museum, where I have never spent more than two hours, but shall have to spend days with Craig, who thinks me rather intellectual. I have arranged how to manage. I shall have a headache and be tired, and wait while you and Craig examine every coin and piece of old yellow parchment, and all the broken-nosed and broken-legged statuary. Ugh! I shudder to think of it, and the many more tiresome places, in which Craig will revel. We shall stand by Mrs. Browning’s grave in Florence and stare at the house where she lived, and sail past the Browning palace on the Grand Canal in Venice, and I shall be expected to go into raptures over Sordello and