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Updated: June 3, 2025
As Cap'n Sproul trudged home, his little wife's arm tucked snugly in the hook of his own, he observed, soulfully: "Mattermony, Louada Murilla mattermony, it is a blessed state that it does the heart good to see folks git into as ought to git into it. As the poet says um-m-m, well, it's in that book on the settin'-room what-not. I'll read it to ye when we git home."
Looking at her, I realised that long ago this worn woman must have been a beautiful girl. "No," she answered steadily. "I wouldn't say Yes to the Angel Gabriel. Uncle Jake and I would make a baulky team. He's obstinate as my old mule, an' so am I. An' there's another thing: I'm most petered out, an' need a rest. Mattermony ain't rest." My brother had tact enough to change the subject.
I approached the spot, in tending to question the former on the subject of the weather during his watch; but, just as about to hail him, I heard the young lady say, in a more animated tone than was discreet for the character of the conversation "No, nebber, sah nebber, widout de apperbation of my modder and de whole famerly. Mattermony a berry differ t'ing, Neb, from what you surposes.
I was also oppressively struck with the melancholy forebodings that appeared in Chloe's manner, rather than in her words, and which made it apparent that she doubted of her young mistress's recovery. She concluded the conversation by saying "No, no, Neb don't talk to me of mattermony while Miss Grace so ill; and if any t'ing should happen, you need nebber talk to me of it, at all.
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