The firm pressure of her aunt’s foot against her own stopped her.

“I knew you would feel that way about it, Mary,” said Sammy, very quietly, but with blazing cheeks; “but I am of age, and father says that Anthony has as much right to ask for the girl he loves as any other man, and that’s all there is to it!”

“You have it all thought out,” said Mary, very white; “but, I must say, I am surprised that a sister of mine, and a granddaughter of Judge Peters—­a girl who could have everything!—­is content to marry an ordinary country carpenter!  You won’t have grandmother’s money until you’re twenty-one; there’s three years that you will have to cook and sweep and get your hands rough, and probably bring up—­”

“Mary!  Mary!” said Mrs. Bond.

“Well, I don’t care!” said Mary, unreproved.  “And when she does get grandma’s money,” she grumbled, “what good will it do her?”

“We won’t discuss it, if you please, Mary,” said little Sammy, with dignity.

There was a silence.  Tom lighted a cigarette.  They watched the game, Mary fighting tears, Sammy defiant and breathing hard, Mrs. Bond with absent eyes.

“Stunning fellow who made that run!” said the elder woman presently.  “Who is he, dear?”

“That’s Anthony!” said Sammy, shortly, not to be won.

“Anthony!” Mrs. Bond’s tone was all affectionate interest.  She put up her lorgnette.  “Well, bless his heart!  Isn’t he good to look at!” she said.

“He’s all hot and dirty now,” Sammy said, relenting a little.

“He’s magnificent,” said Mrs. Bond, firmly.  She cut Mary off from their conversation with a broad shoulder, and pressed Sammy’s hand.  “We’ll all love him, I’m sure,” said she, warmly.

Sammy’s lip trembled.

“You will, Aunt Anne,” said she, a little huskily.  Pent up confidence came with a rush.  “I know perfectly well how Mary feels!” said Sammy, eagerly.  “Why, didn’t you yourself feel a little sorry he’s a carpenter?”

“Just for a moment,” said Aunt Anne.

“I wish myself he wasn’t,” Sammy pursued; “but he likes it, and he’s making money, and he’s liked by every one.  He’s on the team, you know, and sings in all the concerts.  Wild horses couldn’t drag him away from Wheatfield.  And why should he go away and study some profession he hates,” she rushed on resentfully, “when I’m perfectly satisfied with him as he is?  Father asked him if he wouldn’t like to study a profession—­I don’t see why he should!”

“Surely,” said Mrs. Bond, sympathetically, but quite at a loss.  After a thoughtful moment she added seriously:  “But, darling, what about your trousseau?  Why not make it November, say, and take a flying trip to New York with your old aunty?  I want the first bride to have all sorts of pretty things, you know.  No delays,—­everything ready-made, not a moment lost—?”