s and are comfortable."

"Now, look here, Prudence, I am very comfortable as things are,
thank you. And you will pardon me if I say I cannot understand
why you should go at all. I shall continue to eat, I hope, after
I am married, and I think it altogether probable that I shall
require a house-keeper and a cook. I believe they do have such
things in well-regulated families."

"At my age, and with my experience, and considerin' how we
have lived, Mr. John, I couldn't get along with a mistress,
'specially," she added with a touch of malice, "with a woman
considerable older than me."

"Older than you? What are you talking about? Miss Kinglake is
young enough to be your daughter."

Another apple rolled on the floor. "Miss Kinglake!" she exclaimed
in astonishment, "that lamb? Good Lord, I thought you were goin'
to marry the other one!"

"Prudence," I said rather hotly, for I did not relish her
amazement, "you will oblige me by not speaking of these ladies as
the 'lamb' and 'the other one.' I might gather from your remarks
that I am a sort of ravening wolf, instead of a well-meaning
gentleman who is merely exercising the privilege of selecting a
wife. But," I said, checking myself, for I was ashamed of my
explosion, "I shall be magnanimous enough to believe that you are
delighted with my choice, and that I have your congratulations.
You will be glad to know that Miss Kinglake and I are perfectly
satisfied with each other, and that we are both entirely
satisfied with you. And now that we understand the situation, I
think I may presume that we shall have breakfast at the usual
hour this morning, and to-morrow morning, and for many mornings
to come. And, by the way, Prudence, while I have honored you
with my confidence, permit me to impress it upon you that this
revelation is not village gossip as yet, and you will put me
under further obligations by not mentioning the circumstance.
Good-morning, Prudence. Kindly call the ladies at eight o'clock."

And thereupon I hastily departed, leaving the good woman in a
state of stupefaction, since, for the first and only time in our
long and controversial association, had I retired with the last
word. Taking a second turn in the garden I encountered Malachy,
and my conscience reproached me. "Am I doing right," I asked
myself, "in withholding the glad news from this faithful servant
who has shown himself so worthy of my confidence? Is it not my
duty to tell him--not so much to in