knew that Bessie, gentle and trusting as she was, would never give me up or allow her life to be happy without the gratification of her first love. So I set to work confidently to make myself agreeable to the widow and win her consent to our marriage.

“You must bring mamma around to approve of it,” Bessie had said, on that ever-to-be-remembered evening, when we were returning from a long drive, and after an hour of sweet confidences she had surrendered herself without reserve to my future keeping. “She is the best mother in the world, and loves me very much, but she is peculiar in some ways, and I am afraid she doesn’t altogether like you. I would not for the world displease her, that is, if I could help it,” she added, glancing up, as much as to say, “It is all settled now forever and forevermore, whatever may befall, but do get my mother to consent to it with a good grace.”

CHAPTER II.
COURTING THE MOTHER.

Mrs. Pinkerton sat in an easy-chair near the window, doing nothing, when I marched in to begin the siege. I felt diffident and uneasy, although I am not usually troubled that way. But if I should live to the advanced age of Methusaleh, I could never forget Mrs. Pinkerton’s appearance on that memorable occasion. Before I had spoken a word I saw that she knew what was coming, and had hardened her heart against me. She had anticipated all that I would say, had discounted my plea, as it were, and prejudged the whole case. Her look plainly said: “Young man, I know your pitiful story. You needn’t tell me. You may be very well as young men go, you fancy you can more than fill a mother’s place in Bessie’s inexperienced heart, but you can’t get me out. I am Adamant. Your intentions are all very honorable, but you are a graceless intruder. Your credentials are rejected on sight.” I saw the difficult task I had undertaken. “Mrs. Pinkerton,” I said, mustering all my forces, “it is no use mincing the matter, or beating about the shrubbery. I am in love with your daughter, and Bessie is in love with me. I believe I can make Bessie happy, and am sure nothing but Bessie can make me happy. I have come to ask your consent to our marriage.” Then I hung my head like a whipped school-boy.

Mrs. Pinkerton took off her eye-glasses, and then put them on again with considerable care; after which she leveled a look at me and through me that made me feel like calling out “Murder!” or making for the door. But I stood my ground, and heard her say quietly,—

“So you are engaged to my daughter?”

A simple remark, but the tone meant “You are a puppy.” I had to muster all my resolution to reply politely and coolly that, with her gracious consent, such was the fact.

“Are you aware that it is customary to obtain parental consent before proceeding to such lengths?”

“Mrs. Pinkerton, excuse me. I thought in my ignorance that it would be just as well to do that afterwards; or rather, I didn’t think anything about it. I was so much in love with Bessie that it was all out before I knew it. If I had thought, of course I would have—”

“Yes, yes,” said Mrs. Pinkerton, “if your kind of people ever thought, they would undoubtedly do differently. Bessie certainly ought to know better. Girls rush into matrimony now-a-days with as much carelessness as they would choose partners at a game of croquet. I should have been consulted in this. It is all wrong to allow young people to have such entire freedom in affairs of this kind as they are allowed in these days.”

“But certainly, my dear Mrs. Pinkerton,” I said, becoming somewhat impatient, “you will not refuse your consent in this case? Bessie’s happiness—that is, the happiness of all of us, or—our happiness—Bessie’s and mine, I would say—”

“No doubt your happiness is very important to yourself, Mr. Travers, and as to my daughter’s well-being, I have looked to that for quite a number of years past, and I flatter myself I shall be able to look out for it in the future.”

“Not if you insist on parting us!” I cried, getting out of patience and letting all my carefully prepared plans of assault go by the board. “You may withhold your consent, but that cannot prevent our loving each other!”

“Of course not. Nothing on earth can prevent young people who are in love from making themselves ridiculous. But getting married and living together soon cures them of sentimentalism.”

“Won’t you give us that chance to be cured then, my dear Mrs. Pinkerton?” I exclaimed, regaining a little tact.

She seemed to be taking it under advisement, and my courage came up a little. Then, looking at me with her peculiarly searching gaze, she said, “It isn’t necessary to argue the case; I know all you would say. You love Bessie to distraction; you could not live without her; your heart would be hopelessly broken if you had to give her up; you will be true to her forever and a day; you offer her all of the good things of this world that any sane woman could desire, besides which you throw in an eternal, undying devotion; and so on, to the end of the chapter. We will consider that all said, and so save time and trouble. You think that ought to end the matter and bring me to your way of thinking. I wonder at the effrontery of young men, who walk into our households and carelessly tell us mothers what is best for our children, and assure us, between their puffs of tobacco smoke, that a case of three weeks’ moonshining outweighs the devotion of a lifetime.”

I began to see what course was open for me. The old lady was jealous, and I could not blame her. Her objections were general, not specific. Strategy must take the place of a direct assault. There flashed through my mind the ridiculous old nonsense rhyme quotation,—

I said gently, “I can readily see how a mother must regard the claims of the man who comes to her demanding her most precious treasure; and what you say makes me feel how presumptuous my demand must seem. I love your daughter—that must be my only excuse. And after all, what has happened was only what a mother must expect. Your daughter’s love will not be the less yours because she also loves the man of her choice. That she should love and be loved was inevitable.”

“We will not go into the discussion any further,” she interrupted. “I don’t wish to say anything uncomplimentary of you personally, but I simply am not prepared to give my daughter up at present. My opinion of men in general is good, so long as they do not interfere with me or mine.”

(Mental note: “May there be precious little interference between us!”)

“Your judgment is doubtless good,” I said, smiling; “but there are exceptions which prove the rule, and I hope you will find that even I will improve upon acquaintance.”

“Your conceit is abominable, young man.”

“Thank you. I have found no one who could flatter me except myself, so I lose no opportunity to give myself a good character.”

“Especially in addressing the mother of the woman you wish to marry, eh?”

“Precisely, as she is naturally prejudiced against me. My dear Mrs. Pinkerton, what must I do to please you?”

“Hold your tongue!”

“Anything but that. You