kind heart, and
next to Harold and Dick, and Mr. Arthur, I like you better than any man
I ever knew; but I cannot be your wife. Don't cry, Billy; it hurts me so
to see you and know that I have done it. Please stop, and take me home
as quickly as possible.'

With a great gulp, and a long sigh like a grieved child, Billy dried
his tears, of which he was much ashamed, and helping Jerrie into the
cart drove her rapidly to the door of the cottage.

'I should not like Tom, nor Dick, nor Harold to know this,' he said to
her, as he stood a moment with her at the gate.

'Billy!' she exclaimed, 'do you know me so little as to think I would
tell them, or anybody? I have more honor than that,' and she gave him
her hand, which he held tightly in his while he looked earnestly into
the sweet young face which could never be his, every muscle of his own
quivering with emotion, and telling of the pain he was enduring.

'Good-bye. I shall be more like a ma-man, and less a ba-baby when I see
you again,' and springing into his cart he drove rapidly away.

Jerrie found her grandmother seated at a table and trying to iron.

'Grandma,' she said, 'this is too bad. I did not mean to stay so long.
Put down that flat-iron this minute. I am coming there as soon as I lay
off my hat.'

Running up the stairs to her room, Jerrie put away her hat, and then,
throwing herself upon the bed, cried for a moment as hard as she could
cry. The look on Billy's face haunted her, and she pitied him now more
than she had pitied Dick St. Claire.

'Dick will get over it, and marry somebody else, but Billy never,' she
said.

Then, rising up, she bathed her eyes, and pushing back her tangled hair,
stood for a moment before the mirror, contemplating the reflection of
herself in it.

'Jerrie Crawford,' she said, 'you must be a mean, heartless,
good-for-nothing girl, for it certainly is not your Dutch face, nor
yellow hair, nor great staring eyes, which make men think that you will
marry them; so it must be your flirting, coquettish manners. I hate a
flirt. I hate you, Jerrie Crawford.'

Once when a little girl, Jerrie had said to Harold, 'Why do all the boys
want to kiss me so much?' and now she might have asked, 'Why do these
same boys wish to marry me?' It was a curious fact that she should have
had three offers within twenty-four hours; and she didn't like it, and
her face wore a troubled look all that hot afternoon as she stood at the
ironing table, pe