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 and with much bad taste, I thought, as she hesitated with her word, “you like this young man, Hiram Dodd, don’t you? He’s all right, and good to you, ain’t he?”

“Of course I like him,” said Miss Lowery, emphatically. “Hi’s all right. And of course he’s good to me. So is everybody.”

I could have sworn it myself. Throughout Miss Ada Lowery’s life all men would be good to her. They would strive, contrive, struggle, and compete to hold umbrellas over her hat, check her trunk, pick up her handkerchief, and buy for her soda at the fountain.

“But,” went on Miss Lowery, “last night I got to thinking about G—George, and I—”

Down went the bright gold head upon her dimpled, clasped hands on the table. Such a beautiful April storm! Unrestrainedly she sobbed. I wished I could have comforted her. But I was not George. And I was glad I was not Hiram—and yet I was sorry, too.

By-and-by the shower passed. She straightened up, brave and half-way smiling. She would have made a splendid wife, for crying only made her eyes more bright and tender. She took a gum-drop and began her story.

“I guess I’m a terrible hayseed,” she said, Rh