The old lady argued that she could wait. Minnie wished to know what was to be gained by waiting: she had any number of excellent reasons for not waiting. In the end she went out to harness Bess, with secret triumph, knowing that she had disarmed all her grandmother’s suspicions, and wouldn’t need to make explanations when she returned home. She drove off in the buggy, sitting very straight, with a full sense of her dignity as a young lady of fine old family. It never occurred to her that she was in the least ridiculous. She was not physically vain, but she did consider herself impressive, aristocratic, and it would have been a cruel shock to her to know that the cultured spinster, Miss Vanderhof, used to laugh when she saw her driving by, and say to her mother, “There goes Miss Quixote!” Penniless and proud Minnie was, but farther than that the simile would not hold. No one less likely than she to tilt against windmills, no one less sympathetic toward a lost cause. She was engrossed in the management of the silly old horse, scanning the road for anything that might disturb its absurd old nerves, sternly resolved that it shouldn’t over-exert itself. She was convinced that she had a most high-strung, mettlesome animal to handle. At last she reached the village and drove regally along the Main Street, bowing right and left to the tradespeople, almost all of them her grandmother’s creditors. She stopped in front of the up-to-date office building, leaving Bess in charge of a reliable little boy in spectacles, personally known to her, then she climbed the stairs and knocked on Mr. Petersen’s door. He was delighted to see her, drew forward a chair and sat down opposite her with a pleasant smile. “It’s something new to see you here,” he said. “The first time, isn’t it?” Minnie said it was. “I hope you don’t mind,” she said appealingly, hesitatingly, “I know I shouldn’t take up your time, but--I don’t know anyone else I could possibly ask----” “I’m only too happy,” he assured her. “What can I do?” “Your advice,” she said. “I--things aren’t going--very well.... I wanted to put this in a New York paper. But I didn’t know which was the best, the most--respectable. If you think it’s.... Would you just please look at it?” She had taken a piece of paper from her shabby little purse and now handed it to him. He read it, read it again, and his face grew scarlet. “_Young gentleman would receive board and practical instruction in farming in refined family. Beautiful location. Moderate terms. Apply X_----” “But----” he faltered, “I don’t ... do you mean ... you would teach farming, Miss Minnie?” “Yes,” she said, calmly. “I could always ask Thomas Washington about things I didn’t know, when they came up. His truck farm is quite a model, you know.” Mr. Petersen was suffering horribly; he felt that he could _not_ keep a straight face much longer.