We differ as to certain unimportant details of that historic call, but we are in the main agreed upon the conversation that ensued.

“Sally Ruth,” said the major, depositing his bulky person in a rocking chair, his hat upon the floor, and wiping his forehead with a spotless handkerchief the size of a respectable sheet, “Sally Ruth, you like Old Maids?” Here he presented the zinnias.

“Why, I’ve got a yard full of ’em myself, Major.  Whatever made you bother to pick ’em?  But to whom much hath more shall be given, I suppose,” said she, resignedly, and put them on the whatnot.

“Sally Ruth,” said the major solemnly, ignoring this indifferent reception of his offering.  “Sally Ruth, come to think of it, an Old Maid’s a miserable, stiff, scentless sort of a flower.  You might think, when you first glance at ’em, that they’re just like any other flowers, but they’re not; they’re without one single, solitary redeemin’ particle of sweetness!  The Lord made ’em for a warnin’ to women.

“What good under God’s sky does it do you to be an old maid, Sally Ruth?  You’re flyin’ in the face of Providence.  No lady should fly in the face of Providence—­she’d a sight better fly to the bosom of some man, where she belongs.  This mawnin’ I looked out of my window and my eye fell upon these unfortunate flowers.  Right away I thought of you, livin’ over here all alone and by yourself, with no man’s bosom to lean on—­you haven’t really got anything but a few fowls and the Lord to love, have you?  And, Sally Ruth, tears came to my eyes.  Talk not of tears till you have seen the tears of warlike men!  I believe it would almost scare you to death to see me cryin’, Sally Ruth!  I got to thinkin’, and I said to myself:  ’Appleby Cartwright, you have always done your duty like a man.  You charged up to the very muzzle of Yankee guns once, and you weren’t scared wu’th a damn!  Are you goin’ to be scared now?  There’s a plain duty ahead of you; Sally Ruth’s a fine figure of a woman, and she ought to have a man’s bosom to lean on.  Go offer Sally Ruth yours!’ So here I am, Sally Ruth!” said the major valiantly.

Miss Sally Ruth regarded him critically; then: 

“You’re drunk, Appleby Cartwright, that’s what’s the matter with you.  You and your bosom!  Why, it’s not respectable to talk like that!  At your age, too!  I’m ashamed of you!”

“I was a little upset, over in Savannah,” admitted the major.  “Those fellows must have gotten me to swallow over a gallon of their infernal brew—­and it goes down like silk, too.  Listen at me:  don’t you ever let ’em make you drink a gallon of that punch, Sally Ruth.”

“I’ve seen its effects before.  Go home and sleep it off,” said Miss Sally Ruth, not unkindly.  “If you came over to warn me about filling up on Artillery Punch, your duty’s done—­I’ve never been entertained by the Chatham Artillery, and I don’t ever expect to be.  I suppose it was intended for you to be a born goose, Appleby, so it’d be a waste of time for me to fuss with you about it.  Go on home, now, do, and let Caesar put you to bed.  Tell him to tie a wet rag about your head and to keep it wet.  That’ll help to cool you off.”