“I don’t know what you mean by vestas, but I’m through just the same,” retorted Mrs. Upton; and she really was—­for five years.

“Vestas are nice quiet matches that don’t splurge and splutter.  They give satisfaction to everybody.  They burn evenly, and are altogether the swell thing in matches—­and their heads don’t fly off either,” Upton explained.

“Well, I won’t make even a vesta, you old goose,” said Mrs. Upton, smiling faintly.

“You’ve made one, and it’s a beauty,” observed Upton, quietly, referring of course to their own case.

So, as I have said, Mrs. Upton forswore her match-making propensities for a period of five years, and people noting the fact marvelled greatly at her strength of character in keeping her hands out of matters in which they had once done such notable service.  And it did indeed require much force of character in Mrs. Upton to hold herself aloof from the matrimonial ventures of others; for, although she was now a woman close upon forty, she had still the feelings of youth; she was fond of the society of young people, and had been for a long time the best-beloved chaperon in the community.  It was hard for her to watch a growing romance and not help it along as she had done of yore; and many a time did her lips withhold the words that trembled upon them—­words which would have furthered the fortunes of a worthy suitor to a waiting hand—­but she had resolved, and there was the end of it.

It is history, however, that the strongest characters will at times falter and fall, and so it was with Mrs. Upton and her resolution finally.  There came a time when the pressure was too strong to be resisted.

“I can’t help it, Henry,” she said, as she thought it all over, and saw wherein her duty lay.  “We must bring Molly Meeker and Walter together.  He is just the sort of a man for her; and if there is one thing he needs more than another to round out his character, it is a wife like Molly.”

“Remember your oath, my dear,” replied Upton.

“But this will be a vesta, Henry,” smiled Mrs. Upton.  “Walter and you are very much alike, and you said the other night that Molly reminded you of me—­sometimes.”

“That’s true,” said Upton.  “She does—­that’s what I like about her—­but, after all, she isn’t you.  A mill-pond might remind you at times of a great and beautiful lake, but it wouldn’t be the lake, you know.  I grant that Walter and I are alike as two peas, but I deny that Molly can hold a candle to you.”

“Oh you!” snapped Mrs. Upton.  “Haven’t you got your eyes opened to my faults yet?”

“Yessum,” said Upton.  “They’re great, and I couldn’t get along without ’em, but I wouldn’t stand them for five minutes if I’d married Molly Meeker instead of you.  You’d better keep out of this.  Stick to your resolution.  Let Molly choose her own husband, and Walter his wife.  You never can tell how things are going to turn out.  Why, I introduced Willie Timpkins to George Barker at the club one night last winter, feeling that there were two fellows who were designed by Providence for the old Damon and Pythias performance, and it wasn’t ten minutes before they were quarrelling like a couple of cats, and every time they meet nowadays they have to be introduced all over again.”