I did not
suspect it of them. I supposed they esteemed my case as utterly
hopeless, and then I knew that Cyrus knew about--well, never mind; I
don't often mention him to myself. I certainly thought that they all
would have as soon endeavored to raise the dead as to marry me, but it
seems that they have been thinking that while there is life there is
hope, or rather, while there are widowers there is hope. And there is a
widower in Eastridge--Dr. Denbigh. He is the candle about which the
mothlike dreams of ancient maidens and widows have fluttered, to their
futile singeing, for the last twenty years. I really did not dream that
they would think I would flutter, even if I was an old-maid aunt. But
Harry cried out that if I were going to marry Dr. Denbigh he would go
away. He never would stay and be a witness to such sacrilege. "That OLD
man!" he raved. And when I said I was not a young girl myself he got
all the madder. Well, I allowed him to think I was going to marry Dr.
Denbigh (I wonder what the doctor would say), and as a consequence
Harry will flit to-morrow, and he is with poor little Peggy out in the
grape-arbor, and she is crying her eyes out. If he dares tell her what
a fool he is I could kill him. I am horribly afraid that he will let it
out, for I never saw such an alarmingly impetuous youth.
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