Her husband was a tall young fellow, a son of a farmer in the
county, who had occasionally been to see her, but whom she must
have frequently met on her "afternoons out."
When Pomona came home and told us this news we were certainly well
surprised.
"What on earth are we to do for a girl?" cried Euphemia.
"You're to have me till you can get another one," said Pomona
quietly. "I hope you don't think I'd go 'way, and leave you
without anybody."
"But a wife ought to go to her husband," said Euphemia, "especially
so recent a bride. Why didn't you let me know all about it? I
would have helped to fit you out. We would have given you the
nicest kind of a little wedding."
"I know that," said Pomona; "you're jus' good enough. But I didn't
want to put you to all that trouble--right in preserving-time too.
An' he wanted it quiet, for he's awful backward about shows. An'
as I'm to go to live with his folks,--at least in a little house on
the farm,--I might as well stay here as anywhere, even if I didn't
want to, for I can't go there till after frost."
"Why not?" I asked.
"The chills and fever," said she. "They have it awful down in that
valley. Why, he had a chill while we was bein' married, right at
the bridal altar."
"You don't say so!" exclaimed Euphemia. "How dreadful!"
"Yes, indeed," said Pomona. "He must 'a' forgot it was his chill-
day, and he didn't take his quinine, and so it come on him jus' as
he was apromisin' to love an' pertect.
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