habit of wearing a wet towel on my head. I now propose to you--"

"Propose to me?" ejaculates Miss POTTS, with heightened color.

"--That you pick out a worthy man belonging to your own section of the
Union," he continues hastily. "Here's my Heart," he adds, going through
the motions of taking something from a pocket and placing it in his
outstretched palm, "and here's my Hand,"--placing therein an equally
imaginary object from another pocket.--"Try the H. and H. of J.
BUMSTEAD."

His manner is as though he were commending some patent article of
unquestionable utility.

"But I can't bear the sight of you!" she cries, pushing away the brown
linen arm coming after her again.

Taking away her fan, he pats her on the head with it, and seems
momentarily surprised at the hollow sound.

"Future Mrs. BUMSTEAD," he cheerfully replies, at last, "my observation
and knowledge of the women of America teach me that there never was a
wife going to Indiana for a divorce, who had not at first sworn to love,
as well as honor and obey, her husband. Such is woman that if she had
felt and said at the altar that she couldn't bear the sight of him, it
wouldn't have been in the power of masculine brutality and dissipated
habits to drive her from his side through all their lives. There can be
no better sign of our future happiness, than for you to say, beforehand,
that you utterly detest the man of your choice."