"I mean to say that there ain't no fence on earth you could build that'd keep out young men from a handsome girl that's got money." "Ain't that the God's truth, Colonel!" says I. "How come you to figure that out?" "How? How come me to break through the fence that was built around Bonnie Bell's ma, back in Maryland, and carry her away from there? But when I think that, like enough, some low-down cuss like me'll come around and break through my fence and carry off my girl, to take such chances as her ma done--I tell you it makes the sweat come right out on me." "Well, Colonel," says I, "I reckon if any young man comes along here, no matter if he gets in at the front door or crawls in under the fence, he's got to show some revenue as well as be all right other ways?" He set some time thinking before he answered. "That's a right hard question, Curly," says he. "I wouldn't bar a poor man if I was shore he was on the square. It wouldn't be so hard to decide if she didn't have any money; but she has, and it can't be concealed much longer." He gets up and walks up and down a while talking. "I declare, if I was a young man I'd never ast no rich young woman to marry me at all. I'd be afraid to ast her, for fear she'd spot me or accuse me, whichever way it was. I can't agree to no pore young man for her, for I couldn't trust him. And I can't agree to no rich young man for her, because none of 'em ain't worth a damm, as far as I've seen." "It looks like a awful thing, Colonel, to have a cheeild that's rich and lovely." "Yes," says he; "and it ain't no joke neither." "Well now, Colonel," says I, "take the houses in this Row where we live. How many young men is there that we can tally out?" He shook his head. "There ain't none at all worth mentioning--believe me!" says he. I did believe him. That left just Tom for the entry in the Bonnie Bell Stakes. Looked like he couldn't lose. XX WHAT OUR WILLIAM DONE Nobody said a word to Bonnie Bell about Tom Kimberly--neither her pa nor me; for she was so quiet and shut up like we couldn't seem to break in noways. We had to let it go like it laid on the board. One thing shore, being in love or not being--whichever it was--had changed Bonnie Bell a heap. She wasn't the same girl no more. It used to be that Bonnie Bell didn't care so much for her piano as for things out of doors, but now she taken to soaking that pore helpless thing--sometimes sad and lonesome, and then again so hard she'd near bust the keys. Then, maybe after she'd pasted the stuffing out of it a few times, she'd set looking out of the window with her hands in her lap--and so forgetful of her hands that they lay there, little as they was, on their backs, with the fingers turned up on the ends, and even her thumbs. It made me sorry. Then again she'd cut off the music for days and go to reading books, mostly in the window seat, her head puckered, like it was hard work.