We were still wrestling with our honest doubts on the score of Mrs. Blodgett's delight, when lo and behold! that formidable fair burst into the room, redder in the face than ever, for she was out of breath. She had seen the clerk, and he had gone that minute to open the door of the church. And she conveyed this piece of news in such a brisk and important tone as seemed a good deal out of keeping with her severity of character. She had an air of interest which we had certainly not expected her to betray in our humble affairs. And when the parson without a word of preface had the audacity to prefer his proposal in regard to the ring she bore on her finger, an audacity that caused us both to hold our breaths, since we were fully persuaded that Blodgett would at least break into a most violent diatribe against the impudence of some people, drawing an affecting parallel with the late departed saint whose relict she was, and how wild horses should not tear her and this venerable sanctified token of their marital harmony apart, to our surprise her reply was mercifully brief. "Humph!" says she. Having glanced at us for a very embarrassing period, during which time a good deal of perplexity distorted her harsh features, says she: "Well, I never did! Is it a runaway?" "You can take it at that," says I. A very singular change was being wrought in this stern matron. Where is the female bosom that can resist a wedding, or a touch of the romantical? Not even that of the Spartan Blodgett. The more she pondered the matter in hand the less terrible she became. She began to ask a dozen questions of us in a greatly mollified voice. Nay, the tone she used to Cynthia might even be called indulgent. "Well," says she, "seeing as how it is an emergency, you shall have my ring this once, but it goes against my conscience, I am sure. You are doing a very wicked thing, young woman. To think of a little chit like you running away to get married! I am sure I ought not to countenance it. Oh, what will your mother say?" "I have not a mother," says Cynthia, putting her hands to her eyes, and smiling at me through her fingers. This admission seemed considerably to ease the mind of Mrs. Blodgett, and forthwith she began wrestling with the wedding-ring on her fat finger. In the meantime her master was very fortunately engrossed in another matter, and we were therefore spared his comments.