to beckon to them! My forefinger just stays straight and doesn't
feel like crooking! . . . There's Cephas Cole, but he's as stupid
as an owl. I don't want a husband that keeps his mouth wide open
whenever I'm talking, no matter whether it's sense or nonsense.
There's Phil Perry, but he likes Ellen, and besides he's too
serious for me; and there's Mark Wilson; he's the best dressed,
and the only one that's been to college. He looks at me all the
time in meeting, and asked me if I wouldn't take a walk some
Sunday afternoon. I know he planned Ellen's party hoping I'd be
there!--Goodness gracious, I do believe that is his horse coming
behind me! There's no other in the village that goes at such a
gait!"

It was, indeed, Mark Wilson, who always drove, according to Aunt
Abby Cole, "as if he was goin' for a doctor." He caught up with
Patty almost in the twinkling of an eye, but she was ready for
him. She had taken off her sunbonnet just to twirl it by the
string, she was so warm with walking, and in a jiffy she had
lifted the clustering curls from her ears, tucked them back with
a single expert movement, and disclosed two coral pendants just
the color of her ear-tips and her glowing cheeks.

"Hello, Patty!" the young man called, in brusque country fashion,
as he reined up beside her. "What are you doing over here? Why
aren't you on your way to the party? I've been over to Limington
and am breaking my neck to get home in time myself."

"I am not going; there are no parties for me!" said Patty
plaintively.
"Not going! Oh! I say, what's the matter? It won't be a bit of