Billy flushed guiltily and lowered his eyelids; but only for an instant.  Quickly recovering his composure he returned her gaze steadily and ignored her question.

“I see yo’ beau too, Aunt Minerva,” he remarked tranquilly.

It was Miss Minerva this time who lost her composure, for her thin, sallow face became perfectly crimson.

“My beau?” she asked confusedly.  “Who put that nonsense into your head?”

“Jimmy show him to me,” he replied jauntily, once more master of the situation and in full realization of the fact.  “Why don’t you marry him, Aunt Minerva, so’s he could live right here with us?  An’ I could learn him how to churn.  I s’pec’ he ’d make a beautiful churner.  He sho’ is a pretty little fat man,” he continued flatteringly.  “An’ dress?  That beau was jest dressed plumb up to the top notch.  I sho’ would marry him if I’s you an’ not turn up my nose at him ‘cause he wears pants, an’ you can learn him how to talk properer’n what he do an’ I betcher he’d jest nachelly take to a broom, an’ I s’pec’ he ain’t got nobody ‘tall to show him how to sew.  An’ y’ all could get the doctor to fetch you a little baby so he wouldn’t hafter play with no doll.  I sho’ wisht we had him here,” ended a selfish Billy, “he could save me a lot of steps.  An’ I sho’ would like to hear ’bout all them Injuns an’ Yankees what he’s killed.”

Billy’s aunt was visibly embarrassed.

The persistent admiration of this, her one lover, had been pleasing to her, yet she had never been willing to sacrifice her independence for the cares and trials of matrimony.  The existing state of affairs between the two was known to every one in the small town, but such was Miss Minerva’s dignified aloofness that Billy was the first person who had ever dared to broach the subject to her.

“Sit down here, William,” she commanded, “and I will read to you.”

“Tell me a tale,” he said, looking up at her with his bright, sweet smile.  The doll lay neglected on a chair near by and Billy wanted her to forget it.

“Tell me ’bout Piljerk Peter.”

“Piljerk Peter?” there was an interrogation in her voice.

“Yas ’m.  Ain’t you never hear tell ’bout Piljerk Peter?  He had fifteen chillens an’ one time the las’ one of ’em an’ his ole ‘oman was down with the fever an’ he ain’t got but one pill an’ they so sick they mos’ ‘bout to die an’ ain’t nobody in the fiel’ fer to pick the cotton an’ he can’t git no doctor an’ he ain’t got but jest that one pill; so he tie that pill to a string an’ let the bigges’ chile swaller it an’ draw it back up an’ let the nex’ chile swaller it an’ jerk it back up an’ let the nex, Chile swaller it an’ jerk it back up an’ let the nex’ Chile swaller it an’ jerk it back up an’ let the nex’—.”

“I don’t believe in telling tales to children,” interrupted his aunt, “I will tell you biographical and historical stories and stories from the Bible.  Now listen, while I read to you.”