“Ye might ha’ called the filly, Amandy, Nal.”

The honest face of Rinaldo flushed scarlet.  He squirmed—­I use the word advisedly—­and nearly fell off the fence.

“If there was a nickel-in-the-slot kickin’ machine around San Lorenzy,” he cried, “I’d take a dollar dose right now!  Gosh!  What a clam I am!  I give ye my word, Mandy, that the notion o’ callin’ the filly after you never entered my silly head.  Never onst! Jeewhillikins! this makes me feel awful bad.”

He wiped his broad forehead with a large white silk pocket-handkerchief, horribly scented with patchouli.  His distress was quite painful to witness.

“Never mind,” said Amanda softly.  “I was only joking, Nal.  It’s all right.”

Looking at her now, what son of Adam could call her homely?  Her slender figure, the head well poised upon shapely shoulders, suddenly straightened itself; her red lips parted, revealing a row of small, white teeth; her eyes were uplifted to meet the glance of her lover; her bosom rose and fell as Nal sprang from the fence and seized her hand.

A simple courtship truly!  Love had written in plain characters upon their radiant faces an artless tale.  With fingers interlaced they gazed tranquilly at each other, eloquently silent.

Then the man bent his head and kissed her.

* * * * *

“Marry my Mandy!” cried old man Bobo, a few hours later.  “Why, Nal, ye must be crazy!  Ye’re both children.”

“I’m twenty-two,” said Mr. Roberts, expanding his broad chest, and towering six inches at least above his companion, “an’ Mandy will be eighteen next December, and,” he added with dignity, “I love Mandy an’ Mandy loves me.”

“Now, I ain’t a goin’ to git mad,” said Mr. Bobo, stamping upon the ground and gnashing his teeth, “but I’ll give ye a pointer, Nal Roberts; you go right home an’ stay there!  I need Mandy the worst kind, an’ ye know it.  I couldn’t spare the girl nohow.  An’ there’s another thing; I won’t have no sparkin’ aroun’ this place.  No huggin’ an’ kissin’.  There’s none for me an’ there’ll be none for you.  Love, pah!  I reckon that’s all ye’ve got.  Love!  Ye make me sick to my stomach, Nal Roberts.  Ye’ve bin readin’ dime novels, that’s what ails ye.  Love!  There ain’t no dividen’s in love.”

“Naterally,” observed Mr. Roberts, “ye know nothin’ of love, Mister Bobo, an’ ye never will.  I’m sorry for ye, too.  Life without love is like eatin’ bull-beef jerky without salsa!”

“I’ve raised Mandy,” continued Mr. Bobo, ignoring this interruption, “very keerful.  I give her good schoolin’, victuals, an’ a heap o’ clothes.  I’ve knocked some horse sense into the child.  There ain’t no nonsense in Mandy, an’ ye won’t find her equal in the land for peddlin’ fruit an’ sech.  I’ve kep’ her rustlin’ from morn till night.  When a woman idles, the ole Nick gits away with her mighty quick.  I’ve salted that down many a long year.  No, sir, Mandy is mine, an’ Mandy will do jest as I say.  She minds me well, does Mandy.  She won’t marry till I give the word—­an’ I ain’t agoin’ to give the word.”