Well, while we were smoking our pipes, and quaffing our punch, Alsatia turns to me and says, 'Mint,' says he, 'you're well off here. " A deep indignant groan followed. He drew her to him and tipped her chin towards him. She never knew what became of her farmer after that. It was still too dark for reading, but she could see well enough to note the number of the last page—fifty-six. You know they say, as, indeed, I have just quoted already, that all bad poetry is written in a state of emotion, but I have no doubt that this is true of bad offers of marriage.
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