for she was so quiet and shut up like we couldn't seem to break in
noways. We had to let it go like it laid on the board. One thing shore,
being in love or not being--whichever it was--had changed Bonnie Bell a
heap. She wasn't the same girl no more.

It used to be that Bonnie Bell didn't care so much for her piano as for
things out of doors, but now she taken to soaking that pore helpless
thing--sometimes sad and lonesome, and then again so hard she'd near
bust the keys. Then, maybe after she'd pasted the stuffing out of it a
few times, she'd set looking out of the window with her hands in her
lap--and so forgetful of her hands that they lay there, little as they
was, on their backs, with the fingers turned up on the ends, and even
her thumbs. It made me sorry.

Then again she'd cut off the music for days and go to reading books,
mostly in the window seat, her head puckered, like it was hard work.

"What're you reading, Hon?" says I one day. "Seems to me it must be a
bad-luck story. Also, why have you took to reading books upside down?"

"Nonsense!" says she. "I been brushing up in my sikeology," says she.
"That was one of our senior studies--the last year I had in Smith's, you
know."

"What's it for?" says I. "Does it say anything about whether it's going
to rain next Tuesday?" I ast her.

"Well, it's something needed to train us to meet the problems of life as
they arrive, Curly," says she.

"Does it show you how to look any young fellow in the face," says
I--"one that's got his hair combed back and no part in it, and playing
La Paloma on a banjo or a guitar, and guess what he's thinking about,
Bonnie?" says I.

She got a little red and tapped her foot on the carpet.

"What do you mean, Curly?" says she.

"Nothing," says I. "Only I was wondering if they'd put me in a long coat
at the wedding. I never was backed into one of 'em in my whole life."

"Well, Curly," says she, "if you wait for my wedding you may need the
long coat for your funeral first."

"Huh!" says I. "Huh! Is that so? You don't know your pa none," says I.

"What do you mean, Curly?" says she, sharp.

"He ain't going to be boarding you all your life, kid," says I. "He
can't noways afford it."

"I reckon dad isn't worried much," says she.

"Are you so shore, kid?" says I to her. "Now look here: I'm, say, half
your pa. I haven't said a word to you about certain things. What's more,
I haven't said a word to your pa about them neither."