"You seem to be helping her to do this all you can, and yet I don't know where on earth you will get another girl who will suit you so well." "I don't know, either," replied Euphemia, with a tack in her mouth, "and I'm sure I don't want her to go.

But neither do I want winter to come, or to have to wear spectacles; but I suppose both of these things will happen, whether I like it or not." For some time after this Pomona had very little company, and we began to think that there was no danger of any present matrimonial engagement on her part,--a thought which was very gratifying to us, although we did not wish in any way to interfere with her prospects,--when, one afternoon, she quietly went up into the village and was married.
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.