On the lid was written "For a good girl," and
inside lay the red puffs from Mrs. Yost's window down in Finleyville.
Just under them was an envelope. I could scarcely see to open it.
"Dearest Minnie," the note inside said, "I had them matched to my own
thatch, and I think they'll match yours. And since, in the words of
the great Herbert Spencer, things that match the same thing match each
other--! What do you say?--Barnes."
"P. S.--I love you. I feel like a damn fool saying it, but heaven knows
it's true."
"P. P. S.--Still love you. It's easier the second time."
"N. B.--I love you--got the habit now and can't stop writing it.--B."
Well, I had to keep calm and attend to business, but I was seething
inside like a Seidlitz powder. Every few minutes I'd reread the letter
under the edge of the stand, and the more I read it the more excited
I got. When a woman's gone past thirty before she gets her first
love-letter, she isn't sure whether to thank providence or the man, but
she's pretty sure to make a fool of herself.
Thoburn came to the news stand on his way out with the ice-cutting gang
to the pond.
"Last call to the dining-car, Minnie," he said. "'Will you--won't
you--will you--won't you--will you join the dance?'"
"I haven't any reason for changing my plans," I retorted. "I promised
the old doctor to stick by the place, and I'm sticking."
"As the man said when he sat down on the flypaper. You're going by your
heart, Minnie, and not by your head, and in this toss, heads win.
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