a general looseness,
including a desire to write poetry and use hair-oil, and wear pretty
neckties; a sort of a feeling that your clothes don't fit you, and you
can't bear the sight of gravy, and dote on lavender kids, and want to
part your hair in the middle. _That's_ being in love, ARCHIE. That's--"

At this juncture voices were heard calling for ARCHIBALD.

"Oh, do, _do_ let me go," he pleaded.

BELINDA grasped him firmly by the collar. "Heaven knows," said she
impressively, "that I have wooed you thus far in a spirit of the most
delicate consideration. Now, I mean business, I want a husband, and by
the Sixteenth Amendment, you don't stir from this spot, until you
promise to marry me!"

"But--but--I don't want to get married," said ARCHIBALD; "I--I--ain't
old enough."

She glared at him menacingly.

"Am I to understand then," she shrieked, "that you dare refuse me?" And
she laughed hysterically.

"Oh, no, no. I wouldn't. Of course I wouldn't," groaned the ghastly
youth. "I'll promise _anything_, if you'll only let me go."

Thus it was, mid the hushed repose of that lovely June twilight, while
all Nature seemed to pronounce a sweet benediction, that these loving
hearts commingled. The soft hum of the June-bug seemed to have a sweeter
sound, and the little fly walked unmolested across their foreheads, for
they were betrothed.

CHAPTER THIRD.

WHERE THE WOODBINE TWINETH.

Notwithstanding the thrilling events enacted near by, that modest
production of Nature, the woodbine, still continued to twine in all its
pristine virginity. And meanwhile, JEFFRY MAULBOY is at the appointed
rendezvous, waiting for ANN BRUMMET.

She comes.

But why that glazed expression, and that convulsive twitching of the
lips?

She is chewing gum.

"Hilloa, JEFF," said she. "Mean thing. Been here a whole day, and not a
single word about my new overskirt. How does it hang behind?"

What reply does this cruel, this heartless man make?

He took a chew of tobacco, and said:

"Oh, bother your overskirt. Is that the 'something very particular' you
wanted to see me for?"

"Oh no," she replied; "I forgot." She looked cautiously round, and
added:

"Say, JEFF, folks are talking about us awfully."

"Let 'em talk," was the rejoinder.

"Oh, yes," she replied. "Of course _you_ don't care. The more a man is
talked about the better he likes it, and the more he's thought of. But
it's death to a woman."

"Well, I don't care any