"Do not you remember old Aunt Williams?" reply I, merrily; "how she used
to say I was not pretty, my dears, but I was a pleasant little devil!'
perhaps I am a pleasant little devil!"

"_Poor_--_dear_--old fellow!" says Barbara, in an accent of the
profoundest, delicatest, womanliest pity, "_how_ sorry I am for him!
Nancy, how will you break it to him most kindly? I am afraid he will be
sadly hurt! will you speak to him, or do it by letter?"

Barbara has risen. We are all standing up, more or less; it is
impossible to sit through such news; Barbara's garden-hat is in her
hand. The warm and mellow sun that is making Africa's dreary expanse in
the map on the wall, one broad fine sheet, is enkindling, too, the silk
of her hair, the flower-petals of her cheeks, the blue compassion of her
eyes. My pretty, tall Barbara! Let them say what they like, I am sure
that somewhere--_somewhere_--you are pretty now!

"If you write," says Algy, still laughing, but with more moderation, "I
should advise you to depute me to make a fair copy of the letter; else,
from the extreme ambiguity of your handwriting, he will most likely
mistake your drift, and imagine that you are saying yes."

"How do you know that I am not going to say yes?" I ask, abruptly.

Rivers of additional scarlet are racing to my cheeks, over my forehead--
in among the roots of my hair--all around and about my throat, but I
stand, looking the assembled multitude full in the face, fairly, well,
and boldly.

"Listen!" I continue, holding up my right hand in deprecation, "let me