That evening Simeon and his wife sat out upon the porch; Jeannette and Sandy upon the door-step. He had his fiddle and was playing “Turkey in the Straw,” keeping time with his foot, his face lit by a happy smile. Jeannette’s slipper tapped the floor in minor accompaniment. She looked into his face; saw the brightness of it in the darkness, and whispered: “Your music is most suggestive: I never felt so much like dancing as I do tonight.” Sandy thought his cousins had forgotten their rule of retiring with the chickens. The old rooster crowed. “Listen at Old Speck, he thinks it’s almost day.” Simeon gave an enormous yawn; they thought he would never close his mouth. It went shut with a snap, followed by the remark: “It’s time all honest folks were in bed.” It was nearly nine o’clock; and he and his wife went in. How glorious the night; how peaceful and starry; a time for visions, not words, therefore no one spoke. The bold, bad captain, taking advantage of the darkness, made Jeannette’s hand a prisoner. It fluttered as a frightened bird; then it lay still, either having lost hope of escape or resigned to a captive fate. Suddenly it escaped. “Captain, I’m surprised! Get pencil and paper; you must have your third lesson in penmanship. Look on the mantel and bring me a couple of matches.” He took a card from his case and wrote: “_Jeannette, Mein Liebchen: Willst Du mich Heiraten?_” He handed her the card; she read it; the match went out. There was a little scuffle, a smothered exclamation. A great owl, whose downy wings made no noise, lit in the elm by the gate and observing them through his night optics, exclaimed: “Who! Who!” Surprised, the captain released his prisoner; she darted into the doorway, calling: “Goodnight, Captain, hope to see you tomorrow.” Her dream love ended that night; the talisman that drove it from this material to the spirit world, where it was doubtless happier, was a very human kiss. Most of you girls know the kind—they were smuggled in from Europe when our boys came home. The following afternoon, Jeannette, book in hand, sought the shelter of her vine-clad bower. On the bench was a note which she read. She had just finished it, when the Captain stood at the entrance. “Come in, Captain, it is time for a reading lesson.” He sat down beside her, took the book and read—almost a page. “If you do not care for the book read this.” She handed him a card, marked in the upper left-hand corner, “Lesson No. 1,” and he read: “_Chi si marita alla svelta si pente Adagio._” “Translate; I do not read Italian, or is it Spanish?” “Teacher, I do not want to.” “If you do not I will send you home.” “Well, here goes: ‘Marry in haste and repent at leisure’.” “Just such sentiment as I expected. May I ask if you are speaking from European experience?” “No, merely quoting an absurd axiom.” She handed him another card, marked “Lesson No. 2.” “Read.” “_Ah vie! Ah vie! Jai trouve la place on tu demeures._” “Translate.”