“No, you shan’t now—stop, stop,” ses Mary, and she put her pretty little hand rite on Miss Kesiah’s mouth, and looked like she’d cry for a little. I felt so sorry for her, I told ’em I didn’t want to know, and they put the things away, and bimeby I went home, but I kep thinkin’ all the way what upon yeath it could be. I s’pose I’ll find out some day. LETTER VII. Pineville, February 24th, 1843. Dear Sir, I am too happy and no mistake—the twenty-second of February is over, and the “consumation so devotedly to be wished for” is tuck place. In other words, I’s a married man! I ain’t in no situation to tell you all how the thing tuck place, not by no means, and if it wasn’t for my promis, I don’t b’lieve I could keep away from my wife long enough to rite you a letter. Bless her little sole, I didn’t think I loved her half so good as I do; but to tell you the rale truth, I do b’lieve I’ve ben almost out of my senses ever sense nite afore last. But I must be short this time, while the gals is plagin’ Mary in t’other room. They are so bad. I had the licens got more’n a week ago, and old Mr. Eastman brung home my weddin’ suit jest in time. Mother would make me let Cousin Pete wait on me, and Miss Kesiah was bridesmaid. Mother and old Miss Stallins had everything ’ranged in fust rate style long afore the time ariv, and nothing was wantin’ but your cumpany to make everything complete. Well, ’bout sun-down Cousin Pete cum round to my room whar we rigged out for the ’casion, and I don’t b’lieve I ever seed him look so good; but if he’d jest tuck off them ’bominable grate big sorrel whiskers of his, he’d looked a monstrous site better. I put on my yaller britches and blue cloth cote, and white satin jacket, and my new beaver hat, and then we druv round to old Squire Rogerses and tuck him into the carriage, and away we went out to Miss Stallinses plantation. When we got thar ther was a most everlastin’ getherin’ thar waitin’ to see the ceremony afore they et ther supper. Everybody looked glad, and old Miss Stallins was flyin’ about like she didn’t know which eend she stood on. “Come in, Joseph,” ses she, “the galls is in the t’other room.” But I couldn’t begin to git in t’other room for the fellers all pullin’ and haulin’ and shakin’ the life out of me to tell me how glad they was. “Howdy, Majer, howdy,” ses old Mr. Byers, “I give you joy,” ses he: “yer gwine to marry the flower of the county, as I always sed. She’s a monstrous nice gal, Majer.” “That’s a fact,” ses old Mr. Skinner, “that’s a fact, and I hope you’ll be a good husband to her, Joseph, and that you’ll have good luck with your little—” “Thank ye, thank ye, gentlemen; come along, Cousin Pete,” ses I, as quick as I could git away from ’em.