r knew himself to
be at last master of the situation.

"The trouble with Billy--" he began, adjusting his steps to Miss
Minerva's mincing walk.

"William," she corrected, faintly.

"The trouble with Billy," repeated her suitor firmly, "is this: you have
tried to make a girl out of a healthy, high-spirited boy; you haven't
given him the toys and playthings a boy should have; you have not even
given the child common love and affection." He was letting himself go,
for he knew that she needed the lecture, and, wonderful to tell, she was
listening meekly. "You have steeled your heart," he went on, "against
Billy and against me. You have about as much idea how to manage a boy
as a--as a--" he hesitated for a suitable comparison: he wanted to say
"goat," but gallantry forbade; "as any other old maid," he blurted out,
realizing as he did so that a woman had rather be called a goat than an
old maid any time.

The color mounted to Miss Minerva's face.

"I don't have to be an old maid," she snapped spunkily.

"No; and you are not going to be one any longer," he answered with
decision. "I tell you what, Miss Minerva, we are going to make a fine,
manly boy out of that nephew of yours."

"We?" she echoed faintly.

"Yes, we! I said we, didn't I?" replied the Major ostentatiously. "The
child shall have a pony to ride and every thing else that a boy ought to
have. He is full of natural animal spirits and has to find some outlet
for them; that is the reason he is always in mischief. Now, I think I
understand children." He drew himself up proudly. "We shall be married
to-morrow," he announced, "that I may assume at once my part of the
responsibility of Billy's rearing."

Miss Minerva looked at him in fluttering consternation.

"Oh, no, not to-morrow," she protested; "possibly next year some time."

"To-morrow," reiterated the Major, his white moustache bristling with
determination. Having at last asserted himself, he was enjoying the
situation immensely and was not going to give way one inch.

"We will be married to-morrow and--"

"Next month," she suggested timidly.

"To-morrow, I tell you!"

"Next week," she answered.

"To-morrow! To-morrow! To-morrow!" cried the Major, happy as a
schoolboy.

"Next Sunday night after church," pleaded Miss Minerva.

"No, not next Sunday or Monday or Tuesday. We will be married
to-morrow," declared the dictatorial Confederate veteran.

Billy's aunt succumbed.

"Oh, Joseph," she