"I'm glad to hear it. She's none too young," said Woodward.
At another time Sis would have laughed at the suggestion implied in this remark, but now she only tapped the floor gently with her foot, and looked serious.
"I hope you answered her note," she said presently.
"What note?" he asked, with some astonishment,
Sis was the picture of innocence.
"Oh, I didn't think!" she exclaimed. "I reckon it's a great secret. I mean the note she handed you when she came out of church. It's none of my business."
"Nor of mine either," said Woodward, with a relieved air. "The note was for Tip Watson."
This statement, which was not only plausible but true, gave a new direction to Sis's anger.
"Well, I don't see how anybody that thinks anything of himself could be a mail-carrier for Sue Fraley!" she exclaimed scornfully; whereupon she flounced out, leaving Woodward in a state of bewilderment.
He had not made love to the girl, principally because her moods were elusive and her methods unique. She was dangerously like other women of his acquaintance, and dangerously unlike them. The principal of the academy in Gullettsville—a scholarly old gentleman from Middle Georgia, who had been driven to teaching by dire necessity—had once loftily informed Woodward that Miss Poteet was superior to her books, and the young man had verified the statement to his own discomfiture. She possessed that feminine gift which is of more importance to a woman in this world than scholarly acquirements—aptitude. Even her frankness—perfectly discreet—charmed and puzzled Woodward; but the most attractive of her traits were such as mark the difference between the bird that sings in the tree and the bird that sings in the cage—delightful, but indescribable.