at's a great deal--all in one sentence."

"Are you never going to love me a little, Marguerite?"

"How can I tell?"

"Don't torture me."

"What am I doing?"

"You are not doing anything, that's the trouble. The other night
I was sure you loved me."

"I didn't say so."

"But you looked it."

"Then I looked all wrong: I shall change my looks."

"Will you name the day?"

"What day?"

"_The_ day."

"I'll name them all: Monday, Tuesday--"

"Ah, Lord--"

"Barbee, I'm going to sing you a love song--an old, old, old love
song. Did you ever hear one?"

"I have been hearing mine for some time."

"This goes back to grandmother's time. But it's the man's song:
you ought to be singing it to me."

"I shall continue to sing my own."

Marguerite began to sing close to Barbee's ear:

"I'll give to you a paper of pins,
If that's the way that love begins,
If you will marry me, me, me,
If you will marry me."

"Pins!" said Barbee; "why, that old-time minstrel must have been
singing when pins were just invented. You can have--"

Marguerite quieted him with a finger on his elbow:

"I'll give to you a dress of red,
Bound all around with golden thread,
If you will marry me, me, me,
If you will marry me."

"How about a dress not simply bound with golden thread but made of
it, made of nothing else! and then hung all over with golden
ornaments and the heaviest golden utensils?"

Marguerite sang on:

"I'll give to you a coach and six,
Every horse as black as pitch,
If you will marry me, me, me,
If you will marry me."

"I'll make it two coaches and twelve white ponies."

Marguerite sang on, this time very tenderly:

"I'll give to you the key of my heart,
That we may love and never part,
If you will marry me, me, me,
If you will marry me."

"No man can give anything better," said Barbee, moving closer (as
close as possible) and looking questioningly full into Marguerite's
eyes.

Marguerite glanced up and down the street. The moment was
opportune, the disposition of the universe seemed kind. The big
parasol slipped a little lower.

"Marguerite. . . Please, Marguerite. . . _Marguerite_."

The parasol was suddenly pulled down low and remained very still a
moment: then a quiver ran round the fringe. It was still again,
and there was another quiver. It swayed to and fro and round and
round, and then stood very, very still indeed, and there was a
violent quiver.