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 The girls shrieked with laughter and Aunt Jamesina smiled.

“It isn’t in good taste to make fun of your beaux,” she said severely; “but,” she added calmly, “I always did it myself.”

“Tell us about your beaux, Aunty,” entreated Phil. “You must have had any number of them.”

“They’re not in the past tense,” retorted Aunt Jamesina. “I’ve got them yet. There are three old widowers at home who have been casting sheep’s eyes at me for some time. You children needn’t think you own all the romance in the world.”

“Widowers and sheep’s eyes don’t sound very romantic, Aunty.”

“Well, no; but young folks aren’t always romantic either. Some of my beaux certainly weren’t. I used to laugh at them scandalous, poor boys. There was Jim Elwood—he was always in a sort of day-dream—never seemed to sense what was going on. He didn’t wake up to the fact that I’d said ‘no’ till a year after I’d said it. When he did get married his wife fell out of the sleigh one night when they were driving home from church and he never missed her. Then there was Dan Winston. He knew too much. He knew everything in this world and most of what is in the next. He could give you an answer to any question, even if you asked him when the Judgment Day was to be. Milton Edwards was real nice and I liked him but I didn’t marry him. For one thing, he took a week to get a joke through his head, and for