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Stratton-Porter, Gene, 1863-1924

"Her Father's Daughter"

It's not the REAL THING
when it's really occurring that gets one. It's the devils of
imagination tormenting the soul. There is only one thing in this
world can happen to me that is really going to be as bad as the
things I dream."
Linda looked down Lilac Valley, her eyes absently focusing on
Katy busily setting supper on a store box in front of the garage.
Then she looked at Peter.
"Mind telling?" she inquired lightly.
Peter looked at her speculatively.
"And would a man be telling his heart's best secret to a kid like
you?" he asked.
"Now, I call that downright mean," said Linda. "Haven't you
noticed that my braids are up? Don't you see a maturity and a
dignity and a general matronliness apparent all over me today?"
"Matronliness" was too much for Peter. You could have heard his
laugh far down the blue valley.
"That's good!" he cried.
"It is," agreed Linda. "It means that my braids are up to stay,
so hereafter I'm a real woman."
She lingered over the word an instant, glancing whimsically at
Peter, a trace of a smile on her lips, then she made her way down
a slant declivity and presently returned with an entire flower
plant, new to Peter and of unusual beauty.
"And because I am a woman I shall set my seal upon you," she
said.
In the buttonhole of his light linen coat she placed a flower of
satin face of purest gold, the five petals rounded, but sharply
tipped, a heavy mass of silk stamens, pollen dusted in the heart.


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