A Fool and His Money

by George Barr McCutcheon

I think I glared at her. "Then,—then, you are going to marry some one?"

She waited a moment, looking straight into my eyes.

"Yes," she said, and a delicate pink stole into her cheek, "I am going to marry some one."

I muttered something about congratulating a lucky dog, but it was all very hazy to me.

"Don't congratulate him yet," she cried, the flush deepening. "I may be a very, very great disappointment to him, and a never-ending nuisance."

"I'm sure you will—will be all right," I floundered. Then I resorted to gaiety. "You see, I've spent a lot of time trying to—to make another woman of you, and so I'm confident he'll find you quite satisfactory."

She laughed gaily. "What a goose you are!" she cried.

I flushed painfully, for, I give you my word, it hurt to have her laugh at me. She sobered at once.

"Forgive me," she said very prettily, and I forgave her. "Do you know we've never given the buried treasure another thought?" she went on, abruptly changing the subject. "Are we not to go searching for it?"

"But it isn't there," said I, steeling my heart against the longing that tried to creep into it. "It's all balderdash."