"Honest, Melissa? Do you really mean it? I thought it was only fuzz."
"Fuzz your granny," said Melissa stoutly. "In a couple of months you could get a beard like a billy goat if you shaved regular."
"I don't want chin whiskers. I want a moustache."
"And in the meantime," went on Melissa with rare diplomacy, "you may see some one else that you like better than Miss Fairweather. That very frequently happens to a fellow when he's busy trying to get a beard."
"Do you think she likes Mr. Flanders, Melissa?" A great deal depended on her answer. That was to be seen by the expression in his young blue eyes.
"Certainly," said she promptly. "Everybody likes him. I like him. So does your ma and so does your pa. That's nothing to go by. Why, I'll bet you like him yourself. He's a fine fellow."
"Do you think he's very good looking?"
"In a way, yes," said Melissa, musingly. "I shouldn't call him quite perfect, however."
"Do you think he's as good-looking as Diggs?"
"I used to think so, but—Now, that reminds me: if you ever say a word to anybody about Mr. Diggs and me being enamoured of each other, I'll have nothing more to do with you—not a thing, d'you understand? It's a secret. Your pa and ma are not to know about it until we get ready to announce our engagement."