It was Jane who took up the tale.  She had been listening with growing excitement, her eyes fixed piercingly upon William.  “He’s got a beard!” she cried, alluding not to her brother, but to the fabled Iowan.  “I heard Willie tell ole Mr. Genesis about it.”

“It seems to lie heavily on your mind,” Mr. Baxter said to William.  “I suppose you feel that in the face of such an example, your life between the ages of thirteen and seventeen has been virtually thrown away?”

William had again relapsed, but he roused himself feebly.  “Sir?” he said.

“What is the matter with him?” Mr. Baxter demanded.  “Half the time lately he seems to be hibernating, and only responds by a slight twitching when poked with a stick.  The other half of the time he either behaves like I-don’t-know-what or talks about children growing whiskers in Iowa!  Hasn’t that girl left town yet?”

William was not so deep in trance that this failed to stir him.  He left the table.

Mrs. Baxter looked distressed, though, as the meal was about concluded, and William had partaken of his share in spite of his dreaminess, she had no anxieties connected with his sustenance.  As for Mr. Baxter, he felt a little remorse, undoubtedly, but he was also puzzled.  So plain a man was he that he had no perception of the callous brutality of the words “That girl” when applied to some girls.  He referred to his mystification a little later, as he sat with his evening paper in the library.

“I don’t know what I said to that tetchy boy to hurt him,” he began in an apologetic tone.  “I don’t see that there was anything too rough for him to stand in a little sarcasm.  He needn’t be so sensitive on the subject of whiskers, it seems to me.”

Mrs. Baxter smiled faintly and shook her head.

It was Jane who responded.  She was seated upon the floor, disporting herself mildly with her paint-box.  “Papa, I know what’s the matter with Willie,” she said.

“Do you?” Mr. Baxter returned.  “Well, if you make it pretty short, you’ve got just about long enough to tell us before your bedtime.”

“I think he’s married,” said Jane.

“What!” And her parents united their hilarity.

“I do think he’s married,” Jane insisted, unmoved.  “I think he’s married with that Miss Pratt.”

“Well,” said her father, “he does seem upset, and it may be that her visit and the idea of whiskers, coming so close together, is more than mere coincidence, but I hardly think Willie is married, Jane!”

“Well, then,” she returned, thoughtfully, “he’s almost married.  I know that much, anyway.”

“What makes you think so?”