The Girl's mouth twisted a trifle, but her eyes were absolutely solemn. "I suppose that he is," she answered gravely, "but he's never taken the trouble to tell me so, and he's been with us three summers. I suppose lots of men are made like that. You read about it in books. They want to sew just as long--long--long a seam as they possibly can without tying any knot in the thread. Peter, I know, wants to make perfectly Philadelphia-sure that he won't meet any girl in the winters whom he likes better." "I think that sort of thing is mighty mean," interposed the Journalist sympathetically. "Mean?" cried the Girl. "Mean?" Her tousley yellow hair seemed fairly electrified with astonishment, and her big blue eyes brimmed suddenly with uproarious delight. "Oh, of course," she added contritely, "it may be mean for the person who sews the seam, but it's heaps of fun for the cloth, because after awhile, you know, Pompous Peter will discover that there isn't any winter girl whom he likes better, and in the general excitement of the discovery he'll remember only the long, long seam--three happy summers--and forget altogether that he never tied any knot. And then! And then!" her cheeks began to dimple. "And then--just as he begins triumphantly to gather me in--all my yards and yards and yards of beautiful freedom fretted into one short, puckery, worried ruffle--then--Hooray--swish--slip--slide--_out comes the thread_--and Mr. Peter falls right over bump-backward with surprise. Won't it be fun?" "Fun?" snapped the Journalist. "What a horrid, heartless little cynic you are!" The Girl's eyebrows fairly tiptoed to reach his meaning. "Cynic?" she questioned. "You surely don't mean that I am a cynic? Why, I think men are perfectly splendid in every possible way that--doesn't matter to a woman. They can build bridges and wage wars, and spell the hardest, homeliest words. But Peter makes life so puzzling," she added wryly. "Everybody wants me to marry Peter; everybody says 'slow but sure,' 'slow but sure.' But it's a lie!" she cried out hotly. "Slow is _not_ sure. It is not! It is not! The man who isn't excited enough to _run_ to his goal is hardly interested enough to walk. And yet"--her forehead crinkled all up with worry--"and yet--you tell me that 'quick' isn't sure, either. _What is sure?_" "Nothing!" said the Journalist. She tossed her head. "All the same," she retorted, "I'd rather have a man propose to me three years before, rather than three years after, I'd made up my mind whether to accept him or not." "Don't--marry--Peter," laughed the Journalist. "Why not?" she asked--so very bluntly that the Journalist twisted a bit uneasily. "Oh--I--don't--know," he answered cautiously. Then suddenly his face brightened. "Any trout fishing up in your brooks about the first of May?" he asked covertly.