Maidenhood has distinct stages. The sixteenth year, when unusually ripe, is a tender prophecy. Thirteen is often the climax of astringent childhood, with its especial defiance or charm. But nine years old is my favorite season. It is spring in winter. It is sweet sixteen through walls of impregnable glass. This ripeness dates from prehistoric days, when people lived in the tops of the trees, and almost flew to and from the nests they built there, and mated much earlier than now. As I finished eating, the mother brought the little brother into the room saying, “Gretchen-Cecilia, watch the baby.” Then she smiled on me and said: “When she washes the dishes, you can hold him.” She had on a fresh gingham apron, blue, with white trimmings. I judged by the squeak, she had changed her shoes. “Who’s coming?” I asked, when the mother had left. “Papa. He goes around the state and digs oil wells, and is back at the end of the week.” I was washing the dishes when Grandma came in. She frowned me away from the dishpan. She said, “Gretchen-Cecilia, wipe the dishes.” The baby howled on the floor. I was not to touch him. Gretchen-Cecilia tried to comfort him by saying, “Baby, dear dear baby; baby, dear dear baby.” “Do you realize, young man,” asked Grandma, “that I, an old woman, am washing your dishes for you?” I was busy. I was putting my wet stockinged feet on a kindling-board in the oven, and my shoes were curling up on the back of the stove. “Young man--” “Yessum--” “_Where’s your wife?_” I replied, “I have no wife, and never did have.” Then I ventured to ask, “May I have the hand of Gretchen? I want some one who can wipe dishes while I wash them.” “But I’m not grown up,” piped the maiden. It seemed her only objection. I said: “I will wait and wait till you are seventeen.” The old lady had no soul for trifles. She intoned, like conscience that will not be slain: “_Where’s your wife?_” But I said in my heart: “Madam, you are only a suspender button upon the necklace of the evening.” V “PAPA HAS COME!” There was a scurry and a flutter. Gretchen threw down her dish-rag, leaving Grandma a plate to wipe. I heard the grandfather say, “Wel-come, son, wel-come indeed!” The young wife gave a smothered shriek, and then in a minute I heard her exclaim, “John, you’re a scamp!” I put on my hot shoes and went in to see what this looked like. Gretchen-Cecilia was somewhere between them, and then on her father’s shoulder, mussing his hair. And the mother took Gretchen down, as John said in reply to a question:-- “Business is good. Whether there’s oil or not, I dig the hole and get paid.”