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When he knocked at Adelia’s door he discovered that his face was wet with perspiration. Adelia opened the door and started when she saw him; then she turned very red and stiffly asked him in. Young Thomas went in and sat down, wondering if all men felt so horribly uncomfortable when they went courting.

Adelia stooped low over the woodbox to put a stick of wood in the stove, for the May evening was chilly. Her shoulders were shaking; the shaking grew worse; suddenly Adelia laughed hysterically and, sitting down on the woodbox, continued to laugh. Young Thomas eyed her with a friendly grin.

“Oh, do excuse me,” gasped poor Adelia, wiping tears from her eyes. “This is–dreadful–I didn’t mean to laugh–I don’t know why I’m laughing–but–I–can’t help it.”

She laughed helplessly again. Young Thomas laughed too. His embarrassment vanished in the mellowness of that laughter. Presently Adelia composed herself and removed from the woodbox to a chair, but there was still a suspicious twitching about the corners of her mouth.

“I suppose,” said Young Thomas, determined to have it over with before the ice could form again, “I suppose, Adelia, you’ve heard the story that’s been going about you and me of late?”

Adelia nodded. “I’ve been persecuted to the verge of insanity with it,” she said. “Every soul I’ve seen has tormented me about it, and people have written me about it. I’ve denied it till I was black in the face, but nobody believed me. I can’t find out how it started. I hope you believe, Mr. Everett, that it couldn’t possibly have arisen from anything I said. I’ve felt dreadfully worried for fear you might think it did. I heard that my cousin, Lucilla Barrett, said I told her, but Lucilla vowed to me that she never said such a thing or even dreamed of it. I’ve felt dreadful bad over the whole affair. I even gave up the idea of making a quilt after a lovely new pattern I’ve got because they made such a talk about my brown dress.”

“I’ve been kind of supposing that you must be going to marry somebody, and folks just guessed it was me,” said Young Thomas–he said it anxiously.

“No, I’m not going to be married to anybody,” said Adelia with a laugh, taking up her knitting.

“I’m glad of that,” said Young Thomas gravely. “I mean,” he hastened to add, seeing the look of astonishment on Adelia’s face, “that I’m glad there isn’t any other man because–because I want you myself, Adelia.”

Adelia laid down her knitting and blushed crimson. But she looked at Young Thomas squarely and reproachfully.

“You needn’t think you are bound to say that because of the gossip, Mr. Everett,” she said quietly.

“Oh, I don’t,” said Young Thomas earnestly. “But the truth is, the story set me to thinking about you, and from that I got to wishing it was true–honest, I did–I couldn’t get you out of my head, and at last I didn’t want to. It just seemed to me that you were the very woman for me if you’d only take me. Will you, Adelia? I’ve got a good farm and house, and I’ll try to make you happy.”

It was not a very romantic wooing, perhaps. But Adelia was forty and had never been a romantic little body even in the heyday of youth. She was a practical woman, and Young Thomas was a fine looking man of his age with abundance of worldly goods. Besides, she liked him, and the gossip had made her think a good deal about him of late. Indeed, in a moment of candour she had owned to herself the very last Sunday in church that she wouldn’t mind if the story were true.

“I’ll–I’ll think of it,” she said.

This was practically an acceptance, and Young Thomas so understood it. Without loss of time he crossed the kitchen, sat down beside Adelia, and put his arms about her plump waist.

“Here’s a kiss Charlie sent me to give you,” he said, giving it.