“I guess maybe in the city you don't see as much of it, or think as much about it. Yes, they're the Indiana skies,” the old man went on. Skies as blue As the eyes of children when they smile at you.' “There aren't any others anywhere that ever seemed much like them to me. They've been company for me all my life. I don't think there are any others half as beautiful, and I know there aren't any as sociable. They were always so.” He sighed gently, and Miss Sherwood fancied his wife must have found the Indiana skies as lovely as he had, in the days of long ago. “Seems to me they _are_ the softest and bluest and kindest in the world.” “I think they are,” said Helen, “and they are more beautiful than the 'Italian skies,' though I doubt if many of us Hoosiers realize it; and--certainly no one else does.” The old man leaned over and patted her hand. Harkless gasped. “'Us Hoosiers!'” chuckled the judge. “You're a great Hoosier, young lady! How much of your life have you spent in the State? 'Us Hoosiers!'” “But I'm going to be a good one,” she answered, gaily, “and if I'm good enough, when I grow up maybe I'll be a great one.” The buckboard had been brought around, and the four young people climbed in, Harkless driving. Before they started, the judge, standing on the horse-block in front of the gate, leaned over and patted Miss Sherwood's hand again. Harkless gathered up the reins. “You'll make a great Hoosier, all right,” said the old man, beaming upon the girl. “You needn't worry about that, I guess, my dear.” When he said “my dear,” Harkless spoke to the horses. “Wait,” said the judge, still holding the girl's hand. “You'll make a great Hoosier, some day; don't fret. You're already a very beautiful one.” Then he bent his white head and kissed her, gallantly. John said: “Good afternoon, judge”; the whip cracked like a pistol-shot, and the buckboard dashed off in a cloud of dust. “Every once in a while, Harkless,” the old fellow called after them, “you must remember to look at the team.”