Hillsboro is a very peculiar little speck on the universe; even more peculiar than being like a hen.  It is one of the oldest towns in Tennessee and the moss on it is so thick that it can’t be scratched off except in spots.  But it has a lot of racehorse and distillery money in it and when it gets poked up by anything unusual it takes a gulp of its own alcoholic atmosphere and runs away on its own track at a two-five gait, shedding moss as it goes.  It hasn’t had a real joy-race for a long time and I felt that it needed it.  I rolled over and laughed into my pillow.

The subject of the conduct of widows is a serious one.  Of all the things old Tradition is most set about it is that, and what was decided to be the proper thing a million years ago this town still dictates shall be done, and spends a good deal of its time seeing its directions carried out.  For a year after the funeral they forget about the poor bereaved and when they do remember her they speak to and of her in the same tones of voice they used at the obsequies.  Then sooner or later some neighbor is sure to see some man walk home from church with her or hear some old bachelor’s voice on her front porch.  Mr. Cain took Mrs. Caruther’s little Jessie up in his buggy and helped her out at her mother’s gate just before last Christmas, and if the poor widow hadn’t acted quick the town would have noticed them to death before he proposed to her.  They were married the day after New Year’s and she lost lots of good friends because she didn’t give them more time to talk about it.

I don’t intend to run any risk of losing my friends that way and I want them to have all the good time they can get out of it.  I’m going to serve out mint-juleps of excitement until the dear old place is running as it did when it was a two-year-old.  Why get mad when people are interested in you?  It’s a compliment after all and just gives them more to think about.  I remembered the two trunks across the hall and hugged my knees up under by chin with pleasure at the thought of the town-talk they contained.

Then just as I had got the first plan well-going and was deciding whether to wear the mauve meteor or the white chiffon with the rosebud embroidery as a first julep for my friends, a sweetness came in through my window that took my breath away and I lay still with my hand over my heart and listened.  It was Billy singing right under my window, and I’ve never heard him do it before in all his five years.  It was the dearest old-fashioned tune ever written and Billy sang the words as distinctly as if he had been a boy chorister doing a difficult recitative.  My heart beat so it shook the lace on my breast like a breeze from heaven as he took the high note and then let it go on the last few words.

  “If you love me, Molly, darling,
   Let your answer be a kiss!”