“Of all this?  Your father’s a millionaire, and I won’t—­I can’t—­”

“He isn’t!” cried Barbran.  “And you can—­you will.”

“He isn’t?” ejaculated Phil.  “What is he?”

“He’s a school-teacher, and I haven’t got a thing but debts.”

Phil received this untoward news as if a flock of angels, ringing joy bells, had just brought him the gladdest tidings in history.  After an interlude he said: 

“But, why—­”

“Because,” said Barbran, burrowing her nose in his coat:  “I thought it would be an asset.  I thought people would consider it romantic and it would help business.  See how much that reporter made of it!  Phil!  Wh-wh-why are you treating me like a—­a—­a—­dumbbell?”

For he had thrust her away from him at arm’s-length again.

“There’s one other thing between us, Barbran.”

“If there is, it’s your fault.  What is it?”

“Harvey Wheelwright,” he said solemnly.  “Do you really like that sickening slush-slinger?”

She raised to him eyes in which a righteous hate quivered.  “I loathe him.  I’ve always loathed him.  I despise the very ink he writes with and the paper it’s printed on.”

When I happened in a few minutes later, they were ritually burning the “Dear Friend and Admirer” letter in a slow candle-flame, and Harvey Wheelwright, as represented by his unctuously rolling signature, was writhing in merited torment.  Between them they told me their little romance.

“And he’s not going to Kansas City,” said Barbran defiantly.

“I’m not going anywhere, ever, away from Barbran,” said young Phil.

“And he’s going to paint what he wants to.”

“Pictures of Barbran,” said young Phil.

“And we’re going to burn the Wheel sign in effigy, and wipe off the walls and make the place a success,” said Barbran.

“And we’re going to be married right away,” said Phil.

“Next week,” said Barbran.

“What do you think?” said both.

Now I know what I ought to have said just as well as MacLachan himself.  I should have pointed out the folly and recklessness of marrying on twenty-five dollars a week and a dowry of debts.  I should have preached prudence and caution and delay, and have pointed out—­The wind blew the door open:  Young Spring was in the park, and the wet odor of little burgeoning leaves was borne in, wakening unwithered memories in my withered heart.

“Bless you, my children!” said I.

It was actually for this, as holding out encouragement to their reckless, feckless plans, that Wisdom, in the person of MacLachan, the tailor, reprehended me, rather than for my historical intentions regarding the pair.

“What’ll they be marryin’ on?” demanded Mac Wisdom—­that is to say, MacLachan.

“Spring and youth,” I said.  “The fragrance of lilac in the air, the glow of romance in their hearts.  What better would you ask?”