feel like going to church the day
after the picnic, but father wouldn't let me off. I caught my foot in
a hole in the carpet walking up the aisle, which drew particular
attention to me; and dropped by hymn-book twice, to add to the
interest I had already excited in the congregation. My fingers are
always all thumbs when I have to find the hymn.

"I do believe you did take cold yesterday," said mother, when we came
out. "You must have a fever, for your face is as red as fire."

Very consoling when a young man wants to look real sweet. But that's
my luck. I'll be as pale as a poet when I leave my looking-glass, but
before I enter a ball-room or a dining-room I'll be as red as an
alderman. I have often wished that I could be permanently whitewashed,
like a kitchen wall or a politician's record. I think, perhaps, if I
were whitewashed for a month or two I might cure myself of my habit of
blushing when I enter a room. I bought a box of "Meen Fun" once, and
tried to powder; but I guess I didn't understand the art as well as
the women do; it was mean fun in good earnest, for the girl I was
going to take to singing-school wanted to know if I'd been helping my
ma make biscuits for supper; and then she took her handkerchief and
brushed my face, which wasn't so bad as it might have been, for her
handkerchief had patchouly on it and was as soft as silk. But that
wasn't Belle Marigold, and so it didn't matter.

To return to church. I went again in the evening, and felt more at
home, for the kerosene was not very bright. I got along without any
accident. After meeting was out, father stopped to speak to the
minister. As I stood in the entry, waiting for him, Belle came out,
and asked me how I felt after the picnic. I saw she was alone, and so
I hemmed, and said: "Have you any one to see you home?"

She said, "No; but I'm not afraid--it's not far," and stopped and
waited for me to offer her my arm, looking up at me with those
bewitching eyes.

"Oh," said I, dying to wait upon her, but not daring to crook my elbow
before the crowd, "I'm glad of that; but if you are the least bit
timid, Miss Marigold, father and I will walk home with you."

Then I heard a suppressed laugh behind me, and, turning, saw that
detestable Fred Hencoop, who never knew what it was to feel modest
since the day his nurse tied his first bib on him.

"Miss Marigold," said he, looking as innocent as a lamb, "if you do me
the honor to accept my arm, I'll try