ey come to go away, Katherine she hugged Bonnie Bell tighter than
ever, and Old Man Kimberly held her hand for quite a while.

"You'll take pity on a old man, won't you," says he, "and come to see us
often? You really must."

"Yes, my dear," says Mrs. Kimberly; "come and liven us up sometimes.
It's been very delightful to see you young people enjoy yourselves so
much--and you old people too," says she, and laughed at her husband, who
maybe was some illuminated.

It was plain enough to me when they went away that our place had turned
out better'n they thought it would. Bonnie Bell, too, if she'd been on
inspection for them, same as Tom Kimberly was with us, certainly'd more
than made good. Likewise, I suppose our sheep and gondola pictures must
of made good too. We couldn't exactly of been classed as heathen--not
unless me and Old Man Wright was.

We didn't say nothing to Bonnie Bell about these things, and pretty soon
she kissed her pa good night and went upstairs to her room. The old man
and me set for a while thinking things over.

"What do you think of him, Curly?" says he to me after a while.

"Well," says I, "it ain't just as though the cat had brought him in.
He's good-looking," says I, "and he can dance; and he's a pleasant
fellow enough. I only sort of got it in for people that drink cocktails
instead of straight liquor and push their hair back thataway."

"Well now," he went on, "you've got to allow for differences in
different places. Riding and roping ain't so important in Chicago as
dining and dancing--not among our best people," says he. "You've got to
take account of that. A girl might do a lot worse."

"There ain't nobody good enough for Bonnie Bell," says I, "when it comes
to that; but I was just sort of thinking I like a man to know something
about riding and shooting, and that sort of thing, as well as dancing."

"Curly," says he, "you said your pa was a hard-shell?"

"Yes," says I.

"A hard-shell Presbyterian?" says he. "Anyhow, your folks must of been
right exacting. Now don't be too hard on young folks."

"Listen to me, Colonel," says I. "Suppose you had two of 'em right
here--one that didn't have no family nor no money, but took to ranch
work sort of natural; and one that could dance and dine like you say.
One of these men parts his hair on one side and one combs it back,
without no part. Which one of 'em would you like most?"

"I'd have to see both men and size 'em up," says he. "But