over Mrs. Culpepper nearly talked
her head off to me and at Molly about what a fine man he is, and told
all about his family, and connections--he's related to the angel
Gabriel on his mother's side," she laughed, "and he's own cousin to
St. Peter through the Brownwells."

"Oh, I guess they're innocent enough about it--they aren't
mercenary," interrupted the general.

"Oh, no," replied Mrs Ward, "never in the world; but he's been good to
them and he's of their stock--and it's only natural."

"Yes, probably," replied the general, and asked, "Does she intend to
marry him, do you think?" Mrs. Ward was sorting some dahlia roots on
the wheelbarrow and did not reply at once. "Do you suppose they're
engaged?" repeated the general.

"I often wonder," she returned, still at her task. Then she rose,
holding a bulb in her hands, and said: "It's a funny kind of relation.
Her father and mother egging her on--and you know that kind of a man;
give him an inch and he'll take an ell. I wonder how far he has got."
She took the bulb to a pile near the rear of the house. "Those are the
nice big yellow ones I'm saving for Mrs. Barclay. But I'm sure of one
thing, Molly has no notion of marrying Brownwell." She continued:
"Molly is still in love with Bob. She was over here last week and had
a good cry and told me so."

"Well, why doesn't she send this man about his business?" exclaimed
the general.

Mrs. Ward sighed a little and replied, "Because--there is only one
perfect person in all the world, and that's you." She smiled at him
and continued: "The rest of us, dear, are just flesh and blood. So we
make mistakes. Molly knows she should; she told me so the other day.
And she hates herself for not doing it. But, dearie--don't you see
she thinks if she does, her father and mother will lose the big house,
and Bob will be involved in some kind of trouble? They keep that
before her all of the time. She says that John is always insisting
that she be nice to Brownwell. And you know the Culpeppers think
Brownwell is--well, you know what they think."

They worked along for a while, and the general stopped and put his
foot on his spade and cried: "That boy--that boy--that boy! Isn't he
selling his soul to the devil by bits? A little chunk goes every day.
And oh, my dear, my dear--" he broke out, "what profiteth a man if he
gain the whole world, and lose his own soul? Poor, poor John." He fell
to his work again, sighing, "Poor John, poor John!"