“Suppose again,” said I, “that going another day to see the girl, I found her poring over a pile of books—­all new books—­just given her by this same arrogant interloper.”  Perry was silent, but when I paused and looked at him, I saw in his face that I was arguing along the right line.  “Then the question arises, what shall I do?”

Perry nodded.

“What would you do?” he said.  “That’s it exact.”

“I’d meet him at his own game,” I answered.

“With what?” he asked.

“With what?” I repeated.

There was the rub!  With what?  I sat with my head clasped between my hands trying to answer him.

“With what?” I repeated, after a long silence.

“S’posin’ I got her a wreath.”  Perry offered the suggestion, and in his enthusiasm he forgot that in our premise I was the person concerned; but I was not loath to let him take on himself the burden of our perplexity.

“Is she dead?” I asked.

“I needn’t get one of that kind,” he solemnly replied.  “Somethin’ in autumn leaves ought to be nice.”

“You might do better.”

“A hand-paintin’, then,” he ventured timidly.

I smiled on this with more approval.

“They have some be-yutiful ones at Hopedale,” he said with more heart.  “The last time I was down I was lookin’ at ’em.  They’ve fine gold frames and——­”

“Why send her a picture of a tree when the finest oak in the valley is at her door?” I protested.  “Why send her a picture of a slate-colored cow when a herd of Durhams pastures every day right under her eye?”

“That’s true,” Perry answered.  “Hand-paintin’s is meant for city folks.  But what can a fellow get?  A statue!” His eyes brightened.  “That’s just the thing—­a statue of Washington or Lincoln or General Grant—­how’s that for an idee, Mark?”

“Excellent, if you are trying to make an impression on her uncle,” I answered.

Perry shook his hands despairingly.

“You have come to a poor person at such business, Perry,” said I.  “What little I know of courting I have from books, and it seems to me that the usual thing is flowers—­violets—­roses.”

My friend straightened up in his chair and gazed at me very long and hard.  From me his eyes wandered to the calendar that hung behind my desk.

“November—­November,” he muttered.  “A touch of snow too—­and violets and roses.”

He leaned toward me fiercely.  “Violets come in May,” he said.  “This here is a matter of weeks.”

“I’m serious, Perry,” said I.  “Books are the thing, and flowers; not wreaths and statues and paintings.  You must send something that carries some sentiment with it.”

He saw that I was in earnest, and his countenance became brighter.

“Geraniums,” he muttered; thumping the table.  “I’ll get Mrs. Arker to let me have one of them window-plants of hers, and I’ll put it in a new tomato-can and paint it.  How’s that for a starter?”