are half-way there already,—and go to Cousin Abel's house and ask the old fellow to marry us. You know how gladly he would do it. He made me promise, years ago, that he should perform the ceremony which is to make me the happiest man in the world. I know all about the law. The license I can get with his assistance in half an hour, and little cousin Mary will stand as bridesmaid to you in the parlor of the old house where you first promised."
But to this hair-brained scheme the happy girl would not listen, half because she loved to hear him beseech her so earnestly, and partly because, with her formal ideas, the whole proceeding seemed well-nigh scandalous.
"What! no wedding dress or cake," she cried,—"no reception, white slippers, or rice thrown after us,—no one to give me away? It would look as if I were afraid of my own determination, and feared, if I did not marry you right away, I should change my mind."
And the sorrels, brave creatures, still bore
