ld without ever suspecting that their hope was
marriage no less than it is the hope of the giddiest girl. However, a
preacher rarely takes one of them for his first wife. It is only after
he has been left a widower with a house full of children that he turns
imploring love-looks in their direction. And whatever is true in other
churches, it will be found upon investigation that most of the
excellent stepmothers so numerous in the Methodist itinerancy have been
selected from this class. But William was not a widower; besides, love
is the leveler of human judgments in such matters and the builder of
new destinies. So I was chosen instead of the prayer-meeting virgin to
be his wife--the gayest, wildest young heroine hoyden in the town.

We met by chance in the house of a mutual friend. I remember the day
very well, so blue above, so green below, with all the roses in Edenton
blooming. I was going to tea at the Mallarys'. I wore a green muslin,
very tight in the waist, but flaring in the skirt like the spring
boughs of a young bay tree. I had corntassel hair and a complexion
that gave my heart away. Mrs. Mallary, a soft, match-making young
matron, met me at the door and whispered that she had a surprise for
me. The next moment we entered the parlor together. The room spun
around, I heard her introducing some one, felt the red betrayal on my
brow, and found myself gazing into the face of a strange young man and
hoping that he would ask me to marry him. It was William, a college
mate of Tom Mallary's, spending the night on his way to his circuit
from a district meeting. He wore his long-tailed preacher clothes and
looked like a young he-angel in mourning as he bowed and replied to me
with his eyes that indeed he would ask me to be his wife as soon as it
was proper to do so. This was sooner than any steward or missions
mother in his church would have suspected. For, once a man is in love,
his sense of propriety becomes naively obtuse and primitive.

There is little distinction between a preacher and any other man as a
lover. William, I recall, made love as ardently as the wildest young
scamp in Edenton. This was one of the thrilling circumstances of our
courtship. I should not have been surprised if Tom Logan, or Arthur
Flemming or any one of a half a dozen others had made me telegraphic
dispatches of an adoring nature with his eyes, but I was flattered and
delighted to have melted the mortal man in a young