Julian uttered a little grunt of contempt, but it was the kind of contempt which magnified the importance of his own sex and therefore did no real harm to ours. “Uncle Doctor Theophilus is lonely,” said Julian, “having once lived the life of a family man.” “And Jennie is lonely, too,” I admitted, “having never lived the life of a family woman. Think how hard it is to stand outside of--say the little farm--and see T’férgore come home, and our comfort and satisfaction.” “Man: his wife: his child:” ruminated Julian. “The family; the little spot of our own ground. That’s the primitive and true life.” We heard the creek frogs lifting up their voices. “Next summer when T’férgore is big enough to be carried across the field,” said I, “I will make a Kate Greenaway dress with a yoke, and flare a hat of muslin for her, or better still, pucker her face into a frilly cap, and set her down in the midst of the clover where there aren’t any bees.” “And put a crook in her hand,” said Julian. “For now we are her sheep. We can’t stray across blue water until the shepherdess permits.” ILLINOIS BEETRUS TIME, 1881 “Beetrus Jenkins!” called the owner of the name, sending her high clear voice through the boxed space which served as post-office window. “Yes, ’m,” responded the postmaster, with that joking freedom which adds so much spice to the life of a general-storekeeper at a South Illinois railroad station. “Three letters this time. He’s writing nearly every day.” “It wears on you to keep track of my correspondence, don’t it?” affirmed the girl, taking her letters and rending them open with impatient forefinger. They were all addressed, in the same mercantile hand, to Miss Beatrice Jenkins, Wabash Station, Illinois. She compared the dates of the postmarks, and opened the earliest, standing by the door to read. The smoke-dimmed interior of the store was hung with baskets, dry-goods, bacon, ready-made clothing, and boots and shoes. A skeleton flight of steps ascended across a background of wall to the proprietor’s residence, and up this flight of steps went a neighbor’s barefooted child with a coffee-pot to borrow some household necessity, while Beetrus read her mail. She was a spot of mellow color betwixt brilliant autumn tints outside and the dim inclosure. The slim, long-fingered hands holding her letters were nicely gloved. Her white hat was covered with plumes just owning the salmon-pink tint of her small woolen shawl. Her dress was neutral and unobtrusive. Not so, however, were her black eyes and glowing cheeks, or the dark hair clustering to her ears. She was a very pretty girl, and this the station-master always mentally admitted. He came out of his post-office cubby with the mail-bag in his hand. “So you’re going to clear out to-day, Bee?” She glanced up, perceptibly starting and coloring. “Goin’ by rail or by river?”