o many times in the
nine months that had passed since then, that she could repeat every
word.

It still seemed just as remarkable now as it had then that he should
have asked her to promise to let him know if anybody ever came along
trying to persuade her "to join him on a new trail," or that he should
have said that he wanted "a hand in choosing the right man," and above
all that he should have added solemnly, "I have never yet seen anybody
whom I considered good enough for little Mary Ware."

If Mary could have known what picture rose up before Phil's eyes as he
wrote that postscript, she would have been unspeakably happy. She had so
many mortifying remembrances of times when he had caught her looking her
very worst, when he had come upon her just emerging from some accident
that had left her drenched or smoked or bedraggled, mud-spattered,
ink-stained or dust-covered. Holland's recent reminiscences had deepened
her impression that she must have been in a wrecked condition half her
time, for he had kept the family laughing all one evening, recalling
various plights he had rescued her from.

It would have been most soul-satisfying to her could she have known that
Phil thought of her oftenest as he had last seen her, standing at the
gate in a white and pink dress, fresh as a spring blossom, her sweet
sincere eyes looking gravely into his as he insisted on a promise, but
her dear little mouth smiling mischievously as she vowed, "I'll keep my
word. Honest, I will!"

As she recalled that promise now, her face dimpled again as it had then
over the absurdity of such a thing. "The idea of Phil's thinking that
Pink Upham is anybody to be considered seriously!" she exclaimed, as she
recalled his uncouth laugh, his barbaric taste in dress, his provincial
little habits and mannerisms, which in the parlance of the Warwick Hall
girls, would have stamped him "dead common" according to their
standards. She was still looking dreamily out into the snowy yard when
Mrs. Ware came to the door to inquire with an anxious sniff,

"Mary, isn't something burning?"

Suddenly recalled to herself, Mary sprang to open the oven door,
wailing, "My cookies, oh, my cookies! Burnt to a crisp! And the
gingerbread man I promised to little Don Moredock, black as a cinder!
I'll have to make him another one, but there won't be time to stick in
all the beautiful clove buttons that I had this one's suit trimmed with.
His coat was like Old Grimes', 'all