t you should run after them, or
fling yourself at their heads; I wouldn't have you do that for the
world; but you shouldn't make a hermit of yourself. To be popular, you
should mix and mingle freely with your equals. I know how it was in my
day. I was not fond of society myself, but my mother always insisted
that I should sacrifice my own inclinations for the pleasure of others,
and in this way earn the only kind of popularity that is really
gratifying. And I really believe I was the most popular of all the
girls." The dear old lady tossed her head triumphantly.

"That's what Mr. Clopton says," remarked Gabriel; "but you know,
grandmother, your time was different from our time"--oh, these
youngsters who persist in reminding us of our fogyism--"and you were a
girl in those days, while I am a boy in these. I am lazy, I know; I can
loaf with a book all day long; but for the life of me, I can't do as
Bethune does. He doesn't read, and he doesn't study; he just dawdles
around, and calls on the girls, and talks with them by the hour. He used
to be in love with Nan (so Mr. Sanders says) and now he's in love with
Margaret Bridalbin; he's just crazy about her. Now, I'm not in love with
anybody"--"oh, Gabriel!" protested a still, small voice in his
bosom--"and if I were, I wouldn't dawdle around, and whittle on
dry-goods boxes, and go and sit for hours at a time with Sally, and
Susy, and Bessy, and Molly." Decidedly, Gabriel was coming out; here he
was with strong views of his own.

His grandmother laughed aloud at this, saying, "You are very much like
your grandfather, Gabriel. He was a very serious and masterful man. He
detested small-talk and tittle-tattle, and I was the only girl he ever
went with. But Francis Bethune is very foolish not to stick to Nan; she
is such a delightful girl. It would be very unfortunate indeed if those
two were not to marry."

If the dear old lady had not been so loyal to her sex, she would have
told Gabriel that Nan had visited her that very day, and had asked a
thousand and one questions about her old-time comrade. Indeed, Nan, with
that delightful spirit of unconventionality that became her so well, had
made bold to rummage through Gabriel's books and papers. She found one
sheet on which he had evidently begun a letter. It started out well, and
then stopped suddenly: "Dear Nan: I hardly know----" Then the attempt
was abandoned in despair, and on the lower part of the sheet was
scrawled: "Deare