Sammy hesitated.  “You do like him, don’t you, Aunt Anne?” she burst out.

“My dear, I hope I’m going to love him!”

“Do—­do you mind my talking it over with him before I say I’ll go?” Sammy’s eyes shone.

“My darling, no!  Take a week to think it over!” Mrs. Bond had never tried fishing, but she had some of the instincts of the complete angler.

A mad burst of applause interrupted her, and ended the game.  Strolling from the field in the level, pitiless sunshine, the Peneyres were joined by young Gayley.  He was quite the hero of the hour, stalwart in his base-ball suit, nodding and shouting greetings in every direction.  He transferred a bat to his left hand to give Mrs. Bond a cheerfully assured greeting, and, with the freedom of long-gone days when he had played in the back lot with the Peneyre children, he addressed the young people as “Mary” and “Tom.”  If three of the party thought him decidedly “fresh,” Sammy had no such criticism.  She evidently adored her lover.

It was at her suggestion, civilly indorsed by the others, that he came to the house a few hours later for dinner.  It was a painful meal.  Mr. Gayley did not hesitate to monopolize the conversation.  He was accustomed to admiration—­too completely accustomed, in fact, to perceive that on this occasion it was wanting.

After dinner he sang—­having quite frankly offered to sing.  Mary played his accompaniments, and Sammy leaned on the closed cover of her mother’s wonderful old grand piano—­sadly out of tune in these days!—­and watched him.  Tom, frankly rude, went to bed.  Mary, determined that the engaged pair should not be encouraged any further than was unavoidable, stuck gallantly to her post.

Mrs. Bond sat watching, useless regrets filling her heart.  How sweet the child was!  How full of possibilities!  How true the gray eyes were!  How stubborn the mouth might be!  Sammy’s power to do what she willed to do, in the face of all obstacles, had been notable since her babyhood.  Her aunt looked from the ardent, virginal little head to the florid, handsome face of the singer, and her heart was sick within her.

Anthony Gayley came to the train to see them off, two weeks later, and Sammy kissed him good-by before the eyes of all Wheatfield.  She had made her own conditions in consenting to make the Eastern visit.  She was going merely to buy her trousseau; the subject of her engagement was never to be discussed; and every one—­every one—­she met was to know at once that she was going back to Wheatfield immediately to be married in December.

Anthony had agreed to wait until then.

“It isn’t as if every one knew it, Kid,” he said sensibly to his fiancee; “it gives me a chance to save a little, and it’s not so hard on mother.  Besides, I’m looking out for a partner, and I’ll have to work him in.”

“I wonder you don’t think of entering some other business, Anthony,” Mrs. Bond said, to this remark.  “You’re young enough to try anything.  It’s such a—­it’s such hard work, you know.”