“Look, look, Betty!” Sam interrupted my distress over his farmer aspect, which was about to become tearful, and his eyes stopped regarding me with sad seriousness and lit with affectionate excitement as he peered into the bushes on the side of the road.  “There’s my lost heifer calf!  You run your car on up to my house beyond the bend there and I’ll drive her back through the woods to meet you.  Get out and head her off if she tries to pass you.”  With which command he was gone just as I was about to begin to do determined battle for his rescue.

I did not run my car up to his farm-house.  I “negotiated a turn” just as the man I bought it from in New York had taught me to do; only he hadn’t counted on a rail fence on one side, a rock wall just fifty feet across from it, and two stumps besides.  It was almost like a maxixe, but I finally got headed toward Providence Road, down which, five miles away, Hayesboro is firmly planted in a beautiful, dreamy, vine-covered rustication.

“Oh, I wonder if it could be a devil that is possessing Sam?” I asked myself, stemming with my tongue a large tear that was taking a meandering course down my cheek because I was afraid to take either hand off the steering-gear for fear I would run into a slow, old farm horse, with a bronzed overalled driver and wagon piled high with all sorts of uninteresting crates and bales and unspeakable pigs and chickens.  As I skidded past them I told myself I had more than a right to weep over Sam when I thought of the last time I had seen him before this distressing interview; the contrast was enough to cause grief.

It had happened the night after Sam’s graduation in June and just the night before I had sailed with Mabel Vandyne and Miss Greenough for a wander-year in Europe.  Sam was perfectly wonderful to look at with his team ribbon in the buttonhole of his dress-coat, and I was very proud of him.  We were all having dinner at the Ritz with two of Sam’s classmates and the father of one, Judge Vandyne, who is one of the greatest corporation lawyers in New York.  He had just offered Sam a chance in his offices, together with his own son.

“You’ll buck right on up through center just as you do on the gridiron, old man, to the Supreme bench before you are forty.  I’m glad the governor will have you, for I’ll never make it.  Oh, you Samboy!” said Peter Vandyne, who was their class poet and who adored Sam from every angle—­from each of which Sam reciprocated.

And all the rest raised their glasses and said: 

“Oh, Samboy!”

The waiters even knew who Sam was on account of the last Thanksgiving game, and beamed on him with the greatest awe and admiration.  And I beamed with the rest, perhaps even more proudly.  Still, that twinkle in Sam’s hazel eyes ought to have made me uneasy even then.  I had seen it often enough when Sam had made up his mind to things he was not talking about.

“The ladies and all of us,” answered Sam to Peter’s toast, as he raised his glass and set it down still full, then grinned at me as he said, so low that the others couldn’t hear, “Will you meet me in Hayesboro after a year and a day, Betty?”