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 I made up my mind right away what to do. I’d save old Mack if I could. To have a good, seasoned, ineligible man like that turn chicken for a girl that hadn’t quit eating slate pencils and buttoning in the back was more than I could look on with easiness.

“Rebosa,” says I, earnest, drawing upon my display of knowledge concerning the feminine intuitions of reason—“ain’t there a young man in Piña—a nice young man that you think a heap of?”

“Yep,” says Rebosa, nodding her pansies—“Sure there is! What do you think! Gracious!”

“Does he like you?” I asks. “How does he stand in the matter?”

“Crazy,” says Rebosa. “Ma has to wet down the front steps to keep him from sitting there all the time. But I guess that’ll be all over after to-night,” she winds up with a sigh.

“Rebosa,” says I, “you don’t really experience any of this adoration called love for old Mack, do you?”

“Lord! no,” says the girl, shaking her head. “I think he’s as dry as a lava bed. The idea!”

“Who is this young man that you like, Rebosa?” I inquires.

“It’s Eddie Bayles,” says she. “He clerks in Crosby’s grocery. But he don’t make but thirty-five a month. Ella Noakes was wild about him once.”

“Old Mack tells me,” I says, “that he’s going to marry you at six o’clock this evening.”