earned ten dollars a
week as outdoors man. His business was to do odd jobs about the place.
He cut and watered the lawn. He made small repairs. Beatrice had a
rose garden, and under her direction he dug, watered, and fertilized.

Incidentally, the snub-nosed little puncher with the unfinished
features adored his young mistress in the dumb, uncritical fashion a
schoolboy does a Ty Cobb or an Eddie Collins. For him the queen could
do no wrong. He spent hours mornings and evenings at their rooms
telling Clay about her. She was certainly the finest little lady he
ever had seen. In his heart he had hopes that Clay would fall in love
with and marry her. She was the only girl in the world that deserved
his paragon. But her actions worried him. Sometimes he wondered if
she really understood what a catch Clay was.

He tried to tell her his notions on the subject the morning Clay
praised his flapjacks.

She was among the rose-bushes, gloved and hatted, clipping American
Beauties for the dining-room, a dainty but very self-reliant little
personality.

"Miss Beatrice, I been thinkin' about you and Clay," he told her,
leaning on his spade.

"What have you been thinking about us?" the girl asked, snipping off a
big rose.

She liked Johnnie and listened often with amusement to his point of
view. It was so different from that of anybody else she had ever met.
Perhaps this was why she encouraged him to talk. There may have been
another reason. The favorite theme of his conversation interested her.

"How you're the best-lookin' couple that a man would see anywheres."

Into her clear cheeks the color flowed. "If I thought nonsense like
that I wouldn't say it," she said quietly. "We're not a couple. He's
a man. I'm a woman. I like him and want to stay friends with him if
you'll let me."

"Sure. I know that, but--" Johnnie groped helplessly to try to explain
what he had meant. "Clay he likes you a heap," he finished
inadequately.

The eyes of the girl began to dance. There was no use taking offense
at this simple soul. After all he was not a servant, but a loyal
follower whose brain was not quite up to the job of coping with the
knotty problem of bringing two of his friends together in matrimony.
"Does he? I'm sure I'm gratified," she murmured, busy with her
scissors among the roses.

"Yep. I never knowed Clay to look at a girl before. He sure thinks a
heap of you."

She gave a queer little bubbling