“We are taking steps,” said Mr. Taylor. “Bear Creek isn’t going to be hasty about a schoolmarm.”
“Sure,” assented the Virginian. “The children wouldn’t want yu’ to hurry.”
But Mr. Taylor was, as I’ve indicated, a serious family man. The problem of educating his children could appear to him in no light except a sober one.
“Bear Creek,” he said, “don’t want the experience they had over at Calef. We must not hire an ignoramus.”
“Sure!” assented the Virginian again.
“Nor we don’t want no gad-a-way flirt,” said Mr. Taylor.
“She must keep her eyes on the blackboa’d,” said the Virginian, gently.
“Well, we can wait till we get a guaranteed article,” said Mr. Taylor.
. . . . The Virginian was now looking over the letter musingly, and with awakened attention.
“‘Your very sincere spinster,'” he read aloud and slowly.
“I guess that means she’s forty,” said Mr. Taylor.
“I reckon she is about twenty,” said the Virginian. And again he fell to musing over the paper that he held.
“Her handwriting ain’t like any I’ve saw,” pursued Mr. Taylor. “But Bear Creek would not object to that, provided she knows ‘rithmetic and George Washington, and them kind of things.”
“I expect she is not an awful sincere spinster,” surmised the Virginian, still looking at the letter, still holding it as if it were some token.”
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