“Does it hurt yet?”

“Of course it does, you stupid fellow.  Do you suppose I would sit here like a goose on a gridiron and let you hold my foot if it didn’t hurt?  Men never have any sense when they ought to.”

He affected to examine the sole of the thin leather of the upper still more minutely.  As she gave no sign of ending the comedy, he said: 

“I’m sure, Rosa, if it relieves the pain to have me hold your foot, I’ll sit here in the sun all day—­if you’ll bring the rim of your hat over a little—­but, as for the thorn, it has been out this ten minutes.”

She gave him a sudden push and darted away.  He followed laughing, admonishing her against another thorn.  But she deigned no answer.  Coming to the bee-hives, she stopped a moment to watch the busy swarm, and Dick stole up beside her.  She turned pettishly, and he said, insinuatingly: 

“Toothache?”

“You know, Dick, you’re too trying for anything—­holding my foot there like a ninny in the hot sun.  You haven’t a thimbleful of sense.”

“Well, now we’ll test these propositions, as Jack does, by syllogisms.  Let me see.  All men are trying.  Dick Perley is a man:  therefore he is trying.”

“No; your premise—­isn’t that what you call it?—­is wrong.  Dick Perley is only a boy.”

“I’ll be nineteen in January next.”

“Well?”

“Well, your father was married at nineteen.  You’ve said it yourself, Rosa, and thought it greatly to his credit—­at least Vint does.”

“You can’t imitate my father in that, at least.”

“I might.”

“How?”

“You could help me, Rosa.”

“How?”

“Would you if you could?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“On the girl.”

“Ah! she’s a perfect girl, but she’s very young,” and Dick eyed Rosa with ineffable complacency.

“That’s bad.”

“But she’s older than she looks.”

“That’s worse; you’d grow tired of her.”

“No, no; I don’t mean she’s older than she looks; her mind is older than her looks.”

“Women with minds make troublesome wives.  I have refused to let Vincent marry several of that kind.”

“But, my girl hasn’t got that kind of mind; it is all sweetness and wit and gayety and loveliness and—­and—­”

“Your girl?  Who gave her to you?”

“Love gave her to me.”

“Oh, well, since love gave her to you, I don’t see how I can be of any service.  Down here the mother always gives the girl, unless she have no mother; then some other kin gives her.  But if your girl has all these qualities you describe, I advise you to get her into your own keeping just as soon as you can, for that’s the sort of girl all the fellows about here are seeking.”

“Very well, I’m ready.  Will you help me?  It comes back where we started.”

“But you evaded my question.”