s we sat on the porch
in the quiet of the evening, for friend Barbara's eyes were upon me, and
she had a little dint in either cheek which affected me amazingly. (I have
heard such dints called dimples--by whom, I cannot say.) She had a most
extraordinary way of miscomprehending all that I said, and frequently
appealing to her father; so I perforce must repeat all that I had before
said, which often forced me into much confusion of words, which seemed to
make her dints more deep than usual. Then the quiet of her home after a
busy day of traffic and bargaining and buying and selling was infinitely
composing to my mind. There were trees all about the house, and some
orderly flowers--more of the herb species, I think, than the decorative.
There were faint sounds coming from distant places, and when a great many
stars were come and the wind waved the branches of the trees, the stars
looked, as one might say, like tiny musical lamps set among the leaves,
they seemed so many and so bright there, and the distant sounds so
pleasant. I am not, as a usual thing, a noticing man, but while friend
Hicks's daughter was within a few feet of me it seemed I noticed
everything with considerable acuteness. I think this may be accounted for
on the score that I was trying to notice something which failed me as I
searched for it; and that was, if I were to Barbara what Barbara was to
me. She was too friendly, and yet I would have her friendly: she was too
cheerful, and yet I would have her cheerful. I bethink me that I would
rather that her friendliness and cheerfulness might in a measure depend
upon me for existence. I think I came too often to friend Hicks's house,
although he understood me.

"Thee is a most persistent young man," he said to me.

"Does thee think too much so?" I asked.

"Nay, friend Biddle: persistency is an excellent quality which is most
praiseworthy in youth."

"And does thee think that persistency will gain me a wife?"

"Thee had better depend upon thyself more than upon persistency in such an
issue," he said, with the corners of his mouth much depressed.

"Does thee think I might venture to offer myself to thy daughter for a
husband?"

"Nay. A husband never offers himself to his wife: the gift should be so
valuable that she would willingly exchange herself for it."

"Will thy daughter think so?"

"Undoubtedly."

"May I be emboldened to ask her?"

"Thy mind must tell thee better than my lips," he said.