So there was no troth plighted between Allen and Susie, though the youth loved the maiden with all the energy of his fresh, unused nature, and she knew it very well.  He never dreamed of marrying any other woman than Susie Barringer, and she sometimes tried a new pen by writing and carefully erasing the initials S.M.G., which, as she was christened Susan Minerva, may be taken as showing the direction of her thoughts.

If Allen Golyer had been less bashful or more enterprising, this history would never have been written; for Susie would probably have said Yes for want of anything better to say, and when she went to visit her aunt Abigail in Jacksonville she would have gone engaged, her finger bound with gold and her maiden meditations fettered by promises.  But she went, as it was, fancy free, and there is no tinder so inflammable as the imagination of a pretty country girl of sixteen.

One day she went out with her easy-going aunt Abigail to buy ribbons, the Chancy Creek invoices not supplying the requirements of Jacksonville society.  As they traversed the court-house square on their way to Deacon Pettybones’ place, Miss Susie’s vagrant glances rested on an iris of ribbons displayed in an opposition window.  “Let’s go in here,” she said with the impetuous decision of her age and sex.

“We will go where you like, dear,” said easy-going Aunt Abigail.  “It makes no difference.”

Aunt Abigail was wrong.  It made the greatest difference to several persons whether Susie Barringer bought her ribbons at Simmons’ or Pettybones’ that day.  If she had but known!

But, all unconscious of the Fate that beckoned invisibly on the threshold, Miss Susie tripped into “Simmons’ Emporium” and asked for ribbons.  Two young men stood at the long counter.  One was Mr. Simmons, proprietor of the emporium, who advanced with his most conscientious smile:  “Ribbons, ma’am?  Yes, ma’am—­all sorts, ma’am.  Cherry, ma’am?  Certingly, ma’am.  Jest got a splendid lot from St. Louis this morning, ma’am.  This way, ma’am.”

The ladies were soon lost in the delight of the eyes.  The voice of Mr. Simmons accompanied the feast of color, insinuating but unheeded.

The other young man approached:  “Here is what you want, miss—­rich and elegant.  Just suits your style.  Sets off your hair and eyes beautiful.”

The ladies looked up.  A more decided voice than Mr. Simmons’; whiter hands than Mr. Simmons’ handled the silken bands; bolder eyes than the weak, pink-bordered orbs of Mr. Simmons looked unabashed admiration into the pretty face of Susie Barringer.

“Look here, Simmons, old boy, introduce a fellow.”

Mr. Simmons meekly obeyed:  “Mrs. Barringer, let me interduce you to Mr. Leon of St. Louis, of the house of Draper & Mercer.”

“Bertie Leon, at your service,” said the brisk young fellow, seizing Miss Susie’s hand with energy.  His hand was so much softer and whiter than hers that she felt quite hot and angry about it.