Jean came over early this morning and said she just had to talk to somebody about how spiritual Mr. St. John looked last night with his fair hair and white vest on. "He looked just like a _lily_, Ann," she said, with almost tears in her eyes, and me remembering Doctor Gordon didn't laugh at her. Then, before I could comfort her, she had dropped down by the iris bed and was telling me the one great secret of her life, without waiting to stay all night and tell it in the moonlight. "_Love_ him," she said, gathering up a handful of the purple irises, "love _him_? I'd _cook_ for that man." I didn't hardly know what to say in answer to this secret, which wasn't much of a secret to me; but she didn't wait for me to say anything for she went on telling me what big pearl buttons the white vest had on it and how Mr. St. John said "i-ther and ni-ther," and how broken her heart was. She said she was the most sinful girl on earth, for she believed Mr. St. John was about to get struck on her Aunt Merle, and here she was winning him away from her! I asked her if he had ever said anything about loving her and she said why, no; no well-behaved girl would let a man say such a thing to her until they had been acquainted at least a month, and they hadn't been knowing each other but twenty-two days. I then asked her if he had made any sign that he would like to say things to her when the month was out, but she said that was just where the trouble came in. She _knew_ she could win his love if she once got a _chance_ at him; but no matter how early she got up of a morning to go and sit with him on the porch before breakfast, which was a habit of his, he would just ask her how far along she was in geography and if she didn't think algebra was easier than arithmetic, and such insulting questions as that. Then he would pace up and down the floor until her Aunt Merle came out of the front door, acting like a _caged bridegroom_! She said, oh, it would put her in her grave if she didn't get her mind off of it for a little while! Then she asked me if we were going to have strawberries for dinner and said she would run over and ask her mother if she could stay. This morning Jean asked me if I remembered what Hamlet in Shakespeare said about _words_. I told her I had just got as far as _The Merchant of Venice_ and was getting ready to start on Hamlet when Miss Wilburn left. She said well, he remarked "words, words, words," but he didn't know what he was talking about. She said he meant that there wasn't anything in mere words, but he was badly fooled, for there was a heap in them. I told her yes, there was something in words, for I had read of a beautiful Irish poet once that just couldn't think of a word that he wanted to finish up a song with. He studied over it for about three months, when all of a sudden one day his carriage upset and bumped his head so hard that he thought of it.