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 with increasing violence. “George Bailey is the beau of the parish, as you are the belle. We all know that; and for my poor part, I think it a great pity that you should be separated.”

“If you think so, William,” said poor Mary, and then, unable to finish the sentence, burst into tears.

“Well, madam, if I think so”—

“ Then—oh William! William! how cruel this is, when you know that I love you, and nobody but you, in this wide world!”

“If I think so, madam, then—pray finish what you were going to say. There is nothing I hate so much as these sort of scenes.”

“Then,” said Mary, resuming her firmness, “we had better part.”

“Certainly madam, we had better part, I agree with you perfectly,” said the intended bridegroom, walking out of the house without listening to the threats of his father, the remonstrances of his sisters, or even the gentle assurances of Mary herself, that neither George Bailey nor she had ever thought of each other.

Joseph Dobson stormed, his little daughters fretted and wondered, and poor Mary cried; but all fully expected that that night at supper time, or at latest by peep of dawn, William would re-appear, repent, and be forgiven; for a temper “which carried anger as the flint doth fire,” had the redeeming grace of being eminently sweet and sunshiny, especially after one of these sudden