"But she's a teacher," I interrupted, "of mathematics."

"Yes." She nodded wisely. "I always thought that explained it: the
romance is a reaction from the algebra. I never knew a person connected
with mathematics or astronomy or statistics, or any of those exact
things, who didn't have a crazy streak in 'em SOMEwhere. They've got to
blow off steam and be foolish to make up for putting in so much of their
time at hard sense. But don't you think that I dislike Ann Apperthwaite.
She's always been one of my best friends; that's why I feel at liberty
to abuse her--and I always will abuse her when I think how she treated
poor David Beasley."

"How did she treat him?"

"Threw him over out of a clear sky one night, that's all. Just sent him
home and broke his heart; that is, it would have been broken if he'd had
any kind of disposition except the one the Lord blessed him with--just
all optimism and cheerfulness and make-the-best-of-it-ness! He's never
cared for anybody else, and I guess he never will."

"What did she do it for?"

"NOTHING!" My cousin shot the indignant word from her lips. "Nothing in
the wide WORLD!"

"But there must have been--"

"Listen to me," she interrupted, "and tell me if you ever heard anything
queerer in your life. They'd been engaged--Heaven knows how long--over