soldier, will you marry me?"

His foot was thrust into the first shoe, and his forefinger inserted at
the heel, shoe-horn fashion, to slip it on, when the noise of light
wheels sounded on the road outside, and stopped beside the gate.
Looking up, he saw through the window the head and shoulders of Young
Zeb's grey mare, and broke off his whistling sharply.

_Rat-a-tat!_

"Come in!" he called, and smiled softly to himself.

The door was pushed open, and Young Zeb stood on the threshold, looking
down on the stranger, who wheeled round quietly on his chair to face
him. Zeb's clothes were disordered, and looked as if he had spent the
night in them; his face was yellow and drawn, with dark semicircles
underneath the eyes; and he put a hand up against the door-post for
support.

"To what do I owe this honour?" asked the stranger, gazing back at him.

Zeb pulled out a great turnip-watch from his fob, and said--

"You'm dressin?"

"Ay, for the wedding."

"Then look sharp. You've got a bare five-an'-twenty minnits."

"Excuse me, I'm not to be married till eleven."