her finger very badly, so Jessie was obliged to go to milk instead of her, and George offered to go and bail up the cows for her and carry home the pails. He could not milk, or he would have offered to do that last good-natured office for her. There was not much said on either side till Jessie had milked her last cow. George untied the leg-rope, and was taking up the pails when she stopped him.
"Stay a few minutes, I have something to say to you before you go—just a few words. Have you nothing to say to me?"
Copeland looked embarrassed, but said nothing.
"We have been very good friends his twelve-months back," she said slowly.
"Very good friends," said George.
"I have thought whiles that we might be more than friends, but maybe you could not bring your mind to make up to my father's daughter. So, George Copeland, I'll just say his; I'm willing to be your wife if you can like me well enough to wish to be my husband." The girl's cheek crimsoned as she made his singular offer. Copeland did not speak.
"I've been mistaken, George," said she, "but it is better for me to have it all out like this than to have you going away not knowing how you thought of me, or whether you were minding
