Part 7

Clarence, finding the kitchen door open, walked in. By way of a rain-water barrel, the woodshed, and the water-tank, William mounted to the peak of the house roof and proceeded to enjoy the prospect. Reginald made himself comfortable in a veranda rocker. Mrs. Cowslip found the soft earth of the tulip-bed conducive to somnolence and cud-chewing, while Cleopatra grazed near by on some late pansies. Such was the scene that presented itself to Galatea when she returned alone, having found Si Blodgett more scared than hurt.

“Why, Arthur!” she exclaimed. “What are you doing up there?”

“Call off your bull-calf, and I’ll come down and tell you.” The Artist was annoyed.

“Gustavius? Why, he wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“Wouldn’t he? Just look at my forty-dollar Panama!”

“Oh, Arthur, surely there must be some mistake—some misunderstanding.”

“It’s past the misunderstanding stage when I’m treed like this.”

“You must have said something that offended Gustavius. He’s terribly sensitive, poor fellow!”

“Said something! I treated them like friends and fellow citizens till they all set upon me at once; then, seeing it was a conspiracy, I said ‘Abracadabra,’ of course.”

“Oh, Arthur! You forgot that you had no right—that you were not a member of our family—yet.”

“They seemed to remember it all right—especially the bull-calf. I nearly burst a blood-vessel getting up here.”

“It is really most unfortunate, Arthur.” She looked about her, at the late pansies, at the tulip-bed, and at the house roof, and said reproachfully: “William! Mrs. Cowslip! Cleopatra!”

The goat came meekly down from the roof. The cow and the mare walked slowly off toward the barn, much mortified.

“You don’t seem to mind Gustavius—and me,” complained the Artist.

Galatea sat on the grass and took off her hat.

“You may come down presently, Arthur. I have long wanted to say certain things to you, but you are so impulsive in your—in various ways, that it seemed necessary for me to wait for some such opportunity as this, when you are—otherwise occupied. Arthur, you have pressed me to name a day for a certain ceremony—”

She was interrupted by a bellow from Gustavius, consequent upon a sudden movement of the Artist, who immediately concluded _not_ to forsake his perch.

“_Must_ you interrupt me, Arthur?”

“I didn’t; it was the bull-calf; I don’t bellow.”

“Well, Arthur, I _would_ oblige you and set a date for our wedding if I were quite sure that we understand each other.”

“Galatea, there’s nothing to understand except that I love you to the extinction of every other thought or feeling, and always shall.” He paused to regain his balance, for the tree was a small one, and swayed under the stress of his emotion.

“Then, dear, if I set an early date, will you promise faithfully to love me in all my moods, no matter what I say or do, and never be angry, or dispute with me about anything?”

“Bless you, my darling! I swear it!”

“Have you no misgivings, Arthur?”

“None, none! Not one!”

“Not even when you remember that my hair is red?”

“I adore red hair!”

“But not on other girls, Arthur?”

“No; only on you, darling.”

“Thank you, Arthur, dear. If the second Wednesday in October, five weeks hence, will suit you, then you may come down and kiss me.”

“Galatea!”

Gustavius pawed the earth, and he hesitated.

“Can a bull-calf stand between you and me, Arthur?”

“Never!” He leaped far out from the tree and took her in his arms.

Gustavius gave them one glance and walked away in disgust. Being only a bull-calf, he did not realize that he had accomplished in a single afternoon something which had baffled the little rosy god himself for more than a year.

The sound of voices in the road brought the lovers back to earth.

“It’s all over,” said the Poet, catching sight of them. “Si Blodgett has confessed everything, and his insides don’t hurt him any more.”

Gabriel had intercepted the rural delivery; he gave Galatea a letter bearing a foreign postmark. She tore open the envelope, read two pages, and exclaimed:—

“O George, it’s from the Professor! Just listen to this:—

“‘Finding the cause of the higher education of domestic animals much farther advanced in Germany than in America, I have decided to locate permanently in Berlin, where some promising pupils have been placed in my charge, including a young ram with a wonderful talent for algebra. I am therefore offering for sale the place which you leased from me, at the very reasonable price of seven thousand five hundred to _you_, knowing that my former pupils will thus continue in good hands.’”

“Too bad,” sighed the Poet; “I’ve often wished I’d been born a plumber.”

“Galatea,” said the Artist, “would you really like to have this place for your own?”

“Oh, Arthur, it makes me weep to think of leaving Gustavius, and Clarence, and Reginald—”

“And Cleopatra, and Mrs. Cowslip, and William, and Napoleon,” added the Poet.

“You shall not leave them,” said the Artist, beaming upon them both. “Give me the Professor’s address, Galatea, and you shall have a deed of the place on the second Wednesday in October.”

“Eh, what’s that—the second Wednesday in October?” said the Poet.

“Why, on that happy date,” said the Artist, as Galatea flung her arms about his neck, “Bos, Equus and Co. are to take in a new partner.”

The Riverside Press CAMBRIDGE, MASSACHUSETTS U. S. A.

Transcriber’s note:

1. Silently corrected typographical errors.

2. Retained anachronistic and non-standard spellings as printed.