“None but the Plucky deserve the Pretty,” says Peter.
“But he seems to be such a fine fellow, — suppose she shouldn’t —”
The pretty face looked anxious.
“Suppose he shouldn’t,” Peter on the masculine behalf returned.
“He cannot help it: Mary is so noble, — and so charming, when she does not disdain to be.”
“I do not believe she can help it. She cannot disdain Wade. He carries too many guns for that. He is just as fine as she is. He was a hero when I first knew him. His face does not show an atom of change; and you know what Mr. Churm told us of his chivalric deeds elsewhere, and how he tamed and reformed Dunderbunk. He is crystal grit, as crystalline and gritty as he can be.”
“Grit seems to be your symbol of the highest qualities. It certainly is a better thing in man than in ice-cream. But, Peter, suppose this should be a true love and should not run smooth?”
“What consequence is the smooth running, so long as there is strong running and a final getting in neck and neck at the winning-post?”
“But,” still pleaded the anxious soul, — having no anxieties of her own, she was always suffering for others, — “he seems to be such a fine fellow! and she is so hard to win!”
“Am I a fine fellow?”
“No, — horrid!”
“The truth, — or I let you tumble.”
