“That’s one of the signs.”
“What’s a sign?—sign of what?” said Phil, affecting wonder not quite skilfully.
“When ‘there’s only one young woman’ it’s a sign the young man who thinks so is likely to consider her the only one worth thinkin’ about.”
“Oh, pshaw!” exclaimed Phil, attacking the wood-pile with great industry.
“Easy, old boy; ’twasn’t the wood-pile that said it. Brace up your head; you’ve done nothing to be ashamed of. Besides, your old father can see through the back of your head, anyhow: he’s been practisin’ at it ever since you were born.”
Phil seated himself on the wood-pile, looked in the direction where his father was not, and said,—
“I like Lucia very much. She’s a new face; she’s different from the girls about here. She’s somebody new to talk to, and she can talk about something beside crops, and cows, and who is sick, and last Sunday’s sermon, and next month’s sewing-society. That’s all.”
“Yes,” said the old man. “It doesn’t seem much, does it? Enough to have made millions of bad matches, though, and spoiled millions of good ones.”
Phil was silent for a moment; then he said, with a laugh,—
“Father, I believe you’re as bad as old Mrs. Tripsey, whom mother’s always laughing at because she thinks a man’s in love if he sees her daughter home from prayer-meeting.”