Then I watched him going down among the trees and the shadows, and I sat,
much perturbed in spirit, waiting for Barbara. When she did come I had not
one word to say. I only remember that I sat with one leg crossed over the
other, and wished I could perchance cross the right one over the left
instead of the left over the right, and yet I had not the power to do so.
I was sure my brain was playing me false, for things seemed utterly at
variance with possibilities.

"Thee seems shaken, friend Biddle," said she.

"Nay," I responded.

"Thee certainly is. I trust thy business is prospering, and that thy mind
is not set too much upon any one thing."

"Nay."

"Can I do anything for thee?"

"Nay."

So I could not say one word. Friend Barbara took up her knitting, and I
saw that she was rounding the heel of a stocking; and I trust I am
truthful, if volatile, when I remember me that I wished I were her
knitting-needle. She was very quiet: her ball of yarn slipped away,
lacking proper gravitation. "My!" said she, and went and fetched it.

"Has thee ill news from thy people?" she asked, rather restive under my
changelessness.

"They are happily easy," said I.

Then she was quiet.

I bethought me that I had my hat in my hand, and would rise to put it upon
my head and say farewell, but I could not.

"Thee does not seem so comfortable as thee might be," said she.

"I am comfortable," I said.

Then her yarn rolled away again. Again she said, "My!" and fetched it.

"Is thee waiting for father?" she asked.

"Nay," said I.

I think she grew more restive under the silence: I arose. "Farewell," said
I.

"Farewell," said she; and the dints in her cheeks were extreme: they were
the only dints about her, everything else being so prim and gray and
well-ordered, while these were--quite different.

Her father came in just then. I went boldly to him. "Friend Hicks," I said
very loud, "will thee ask thy daughter to marry me?"

"Can thee not ask?"

"Nay: I have tried, but I fail. I never asked such a thing before, and,
belike, thee has."

"Necessarily," said he.

Then he asked Barbara. "Does thee quite approve friend Biddle?" asked she.

"Necessarily," he answered as before.

"Then, Samuel Biddle, I will be thy wife," said she.

"Thank thee, friend Barbara," I said, and shook hands with her father.

"Thee may shake hands with Barbara," said he.

And I did. I fear me that she looked with a less demure look into my