"Tell me about Betty Jo first," the man insisted. "You know, Auntie Sue,
the girl grows dearer to me every year."

"Betty Jo is that kind of a girl, Homer," Auntie Sue answered.

"I suppose it is because she is all I have to love," he said, "but, you
know, ever since Sister Grace died and left the fatherless little kid
to me, it seems like all my plans have centered around her; and now that
she has finished her school; has travelled abroad, and gone through with
that business-college course, I am beginning to feel like we should sort
of settle down together. I am glad for her to be with you this summer,
though, for the finishing touches; and when she comes home to stay, you
are coming with her."

Auntie Sue shook her head, smiling: "Now, Homer, you know that is
settled: I will never leave my little log house by the river until I
have watched the last sunset. You know, my dear boy, that I would be
miserable in the city."

It was an old point often argued by them, and the man dismissed it, now,
with a brief: "We'll see about that when the time comes. But, why didn't
you bring Betty Jo with you?"

"Because," Auntie Sue answered, "I came away hurriedly, on a very
important trip, for only a day, and it is necessary for her to stay and
keep house while I am gone. The child must learn to cook, Homer, even if
she is to inherit all your money."

"I know," answered the banker;--"the same as you make me work when I