She gravely announced her
wants, reading them from a bit of paper,--1 quart molasses, 1 package ginger,
1 lb. cheese, 2 pairs shoe laces, 1 card shirt buttons.
While the storekeeper drew off the molasses she exchanged shy looks with
Stephen, who, clean, well-dressed, and carefully mothered as he was, felt all
at once uncouth and awkward, rather as if he were some clumsy lout pitch-
forked into the presence of a fairy queen. He offered her the little bunch of
bachelor's buttons he held in his hand, augury of the future, had he known
it,--and she accepted them with a smile. She dropped her memorandum; he picked
it up, and she smiled again, doing still more fatal damage than in the first
instance. No words were spoken, but Rose, even at ten, had less need of them
than most of her sex, for her dimples, aided by dancing eyes, length of
lashes, and curve of lips, quite took the place of conversation. The dimples
tempted, assented, denied, corroborated, deplored, protested, sympathized,
while the intoxicated beholder cudgeled his brain for words or deeds which
should provoke and evoke more and more dimples.
The storekeeper hung the molasses pail over Rose's right arm and tucked the
packages under her left, and as he opened the mosquito-netting door to let her
pass out she looked back at Stephen, perched on the kerosene barrel, just a
little girl, a little glance, a little dimple, and Stephen was never quite the
same again.
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