fashion, you know."

Cicely's red lip curled in scorn as she applied herself vigorously
to her plaque, where the inevitable girl with muff and umbrella was
stumbling into a snowdrift.

Hezekiah picked up the widow's daily paper which, by the way, he largely
depended on for the news. Silence reigned for a while, save for the
rustle of the sheet. The click-clack of the widow's knitting needles,
and the rapid plying of Cicely's brush, were varied at last by the girl
surreptitiously pulling a note out of her jaunty apron pocket.

As she read it a smile broke over the dimpled features, and in a moment
more she pushed the table from her and left the room. Swiftly she sped
to the big apple tree where her trystings were held with Rufus, her
playmate and lover.

Hezekiah slowly raised his head, and laying down the paper, said
thoughtfully: "'Pears like the gal gits skittisher every day. Do you
reckon she'll ever come to like me?"

"Why, I dunno why she wouldn't," ventured the widow with an encouraging
smirk.

"Well, she don't seem to, no way." Then looking suspiciously through the
window. "Where's she gone to?"

"Oh, nowheres I reckon," said the mother soothingly, "nowheres in
partic'ler. She's allers around."