She began to smile again, coquettishly untying the string and unwrapping the paper. Instead of the lovely rose-colored ribbon, out rolled a long pair of coarse blue cotton stockings. Miss Marigold screamed louder than she had at the thunder. "It's all a mistake!" I cried; "a ridiculous mistake! I beg your pardon ten thousand times! They are for the Widow Jones. _Here_ is what I intended for _you_, dear, dear Belle," and I thrust another package into heir hands. "Fine-cut!" said she, examining the wrapper by the light of the lamp on the piano. "Do you think I chew, Mr. Flutter?--or _dip_? Do you intend to willfully insult me? Leave the hou----" "Oh, I beg of you, listen! Here it is at last!" I exclaimed in desperation, drawing out the right package at last, and myself displaying to her dazzled view the four yards of glittering ribbon. "There's not another in Babbletown so handsome. Wear it for _my sake_, Belle!" "I will," she sighed, after she had secretly rubbed it, and held it to the light to make sure of its quality. "I will, John, for your sake." We were friends again; she was very sweet, and played something on the piano, and an hour slipped away as if I were in Paradise. I rose to go, the rain being over. "But about that paper of fine-cut!" she said, archly, as she went into the hall with me to get my hat; "do you chew, John?" "No, Belle, that tobacco was for old man Perkins, as sure as I stand here. If you don't believe me, smell my breath," said I, and I tried to get my arm about her waist. It was kind of dark in the hall; she did not resist so very much; my lips were only about two inches from hers--for I wanted her to be sure about my breath--when a voice that almost made me faint away, put a conundrum to me: "If you'd a kissed my girl, young man, why would it have been like a Centennial fire-arm?" "Because it hasn't gone off yet!" I gasped, reaching for my hat. "Wrong," said he grimly. "Because it would have been a blunder-buss." I reckon the squire was right. CHAPTER III. GOES TO A TEA-PARTY. The Widow Jones got her stockings the next day. As I left them at the door she stuck her head out of an upper window and said to me that "the sewing society met at her house on Thursday afternoon, and the men-folks was coming to tea and to spend the evening, and I must be _sure_ an' come, or the girls would be _so_ disappointed," and she urged and urged until I had to promise her I would attend her sociable. Drat all tea-parties! say I. I was never comfortable at one in my life. If you'd give me my choice between going to a tea-party and picking potato-bugs off the vines all alone on a hot summer day, I shouldn't hesitate a moment between the two. I should choose the bugs; and I can't say I fancy potato-bugs, either.