want to marry Max but it was pleasant and convenient to have him around, and we would miss him
dreadfully if any other girl snapped him up. He
was so useful and always willing to do anything for
us — nail a shingle on the roof, drive us to town,
put down carpets — in short, a very present help in
all our troubles.
So I just beamed on him when I said no. Max began counting on his fingers. When he got as far as eight he shook his head and began over again.
“What is it?” I asked.
“I'm trying to count up how many times I have proposed to you,” he said. “But I can’t remember whether I asked you to marry me that day we dug up the garden or not. If I did it makes —”
“No, you didn’t,” I interrupted.
“Well, that makes it eleven,” said Max reflectively. “Pretty near the limit, isn’t it? My manly pride will not allow me to propose to the same girl more than twelve times. So the next time will be the last, Sue darling.”
“Oh,” I said, a trifle flatly. I forgot to resent his calling me darling. I wondered if things wouldn’t be rather dull when Max gave up proposing to me. It was the only excitement I had. But of course it would be best — and he couldn’t go on at it forever, so, by the way of gracefully dismissing
