Philosopher, laying a friendly hand upon the Lad's arm as the boy stood
on the porch step below him.

"You do--if she does," replied Lad. "Lots of times you'd never notice
what I say if she didn't look at you and laugh. Then you burst out and
laugh too--to please her, I suppose," he added.

The Philosopher glanced at me over the boy's head. "Here's a pretty
sharp observer," said he, "with a gift at analysis. I didn't know before
that I take my cue from the Gay Lady--or from any one else--when it
comes to laughing at jokes. Try me with one now, Lad, and see if I don't
laugh--all by myself."

Lad shook his head. "That wouldn't be any good. I'd know you didn't mean
it. She always means it. Besides--she thinks things are funny that you
don't. She's 'most as good as a boy--and I don't see how she can be,
either," he reflected, "because she isn't the least bit like one."

"You're right enough about that," observed the Philosopher. "She's
essentially feminine, if ever a girl was."

"Girl!" repeated the Lad. "She isn't a girl. That is--I thought she
was, till she told me herself she wasn't. She's twenty-seven."

The Philosopher grinned. The Skeptic, who had lit his pipe and was
puffing away at it, sitting on the settle with his back to the
sunset--which was unusually fine that evening--gave utterance to a deep
note of derision at the Lad's point of view. I smiled, myself. If ever
there was an irresistible combination of the girlish and the womanly it
was to be found in our Gay Lady. As to her looks--even the blooming