m folks didn't have so much on us, after all; for that hired man was
shore a gay bird, and playing both sides the fence. I seen he was a
socialist, all right--but, Lord, her, with that face!

XXIII

TOM AND HER

Tom Kimberly he come to our house steady now. Every day he sent flowers
in bundles, like he owned a flower ranch somewhere. Bonnie Bell put them
in the dining-room, and the music room, and the reception parlors, and
the staircase, and the bedrooms--and even in our ranch room.

"Whatever the papers says about bad crops, sis," says I one morning when
a bunch of red roses come in about as big as a sheaf from a self-binder,
"the flower crop is shore copious this year, ain't it? Likewise it seems
to be getting better right along."

"He's a good boy," says she after a while--"a fine boy. And he comes of
such a good family, and I like all his people so much. And
Katherine--what could I do without Katherine?"

"Uh-huh!" says I. "Of course if you like a young man's sister, you ought
to marry him. That stands to reason, don't it?" says I.

"And dad likes 'em all--Mr. Kimberly and Tom's mother."

"Shore he does! For all them reasons you ought to marry the boy. Never
mind about love."

"They're the best people we've met in this town," says she, "and there
aren't any better in any town. They're not only charming people but good
people. They've everything you could ask, Curly."

"Yes," says I; "so it stands to reason you ought to marry that family,"
says I. "Here's them Better Things we come for. Love ain't in it."

You see, I was half her pa. Us two had raised her from a baby together.
I couldn't tell the old man what I knew, but I had to talk to her like
her pa would of talked. I allowed, if she'd get married to Tom Kimberly
right quick, that'd sort of keep things from breaking loose the way they
might, and keep me from having to tell Old Man Wright about the man next
door. I knew plenty more about him now that I wouldn't tell her. I
thought she'd forget him.

Well, she set around all that day sort of moping, with a green poetry
book in her lap; and she had a letter in her hands. It didn't come by
the Peanut route, neither, but by the postman. It was square.

"Tell me, is that from Tom Kimberly, Bonnie?" says I.

"It's absolutely none of your business, Mr. Curly Wilson," says she;
"and I wouldn't tell you in any circumstances. But it is."

"Let me see it," says I.

"Indeed!" She looks me square in