mpliments and bogus talk. Now, suppose you
make a test of these fellers, and see which one of 'em will talk the
straightest to you."

"But how'll I do it, pa?"

"I'll tell you how. You know you sing a little bit, Ily; you took
music-lessons nearly two years in Logansport. It wasn't long, but it
was all we could afford then. And your teacher said you didn't have
any voice, and it was a waste of money to keep on. Now, suppose you
ask the fellers what they think of your singin', and see what each
one of 'em tells you. The man that'll tell you the truth about it'll
have a mighty lot of nerve, and 'll do to tie to. What do you think
of the plan?"

"All right, pa," said Ileen. "I think it's a good idea. I'll try
it."

Ileen and Mr. Hinkle went out of the room through the inside doors.
Unobserved, I hurried down to the station. Jacks was at his telegraph
table waiting for eight o'clock to come. It was Bud's night in town,
and when he rode in I repeated the conversation to them both. I was
loyal to my rivals, as all true admirers of all Ileens should be.

Simultaneously the three of us were smitten by an uplifting thought.
Surely this test would eliminate Vesey from the contest. He, with his
unctuous flattery, would be driven from the lists. Well we remembered
Ileen's love of frankness and honesty--how she treasured truth and
candor above vain compliment and blandishment.

Linking arms, we did a grotesque dance of joy up and down the
platform, singing "Muldoon Was a Solid Man" at the top of our voices.

That evening four of the willow rocking-chairs were filled besides the
lucky one that sustained the trim figure of Miss Hinkle. Three of us
awaited with suppressed excitement the application of the test. It
was tried on Bud first.

"Mr. Cunningham," said Ileen, with her dazzling smile, after she had
sung "When the Leaves Begin to Turn," "what do you really think of my
voice? Frankly and honestly, now, as you know I want you to always be
toward me."

Bud squirmed in his chair at his chance to show the sincerity that he
knew was required of him.

"Tell you the truth, Miss Ileen," he said, earnestly, "you ain't got
much more voice than a weasel--just a little squeak, you know. Of
course, we all like to hear you sing, for it's kind of sweet and
soothin' after all, and you look most as mighty well sittin' on the
piano-stool as you do faced around. But as for real singin'--I reckon
you couldn't call it that."

I looked