Over all her musing poured the warm flood of excitement and delight that the thought of Stephen Bocqueraz invariably brought.  Her most heroic effort at self-blame melted away at the memory of his words.  What nonsense to treat this affair as a dispassionate statement of the facts might represent it!  Whatever the facts, he was Stephen Bocqueraz, and she Susan Brown, and they understood each other, and were not afraid!

Susan smiled as she thought of the romances built upon the histories of girls who were “led astray,” girls who were “ruined,” men whose promises of marriage did not hold.  It was all such nonsense!  It did not seem right to her even to think of these words in connection with this particular case; she felt as if it convicted her somehow of coarseness.

She abandoned consecutive thought, and fell to happy musing.  She shut her eyes and dreamed of crowded Oriental streets, of a great desert asleep under the moonlight, of New York shining clean and bright, the spring sunlight, and people walking the streets under the fresh green of tall trees.  She had seen it so, in many pictures, and in all her dreams, she liked the big city the best.  She dreamed of a little dining-table in a flying railway-train—­

But when Stephen Bocqueraz entered the picture, so near, so kind, so big and protecting, Susan thought as if her heart would burst, she opened her eyes, the color flooding her face.

The cemetery was empty, dark, silent.  The glowing visions faded, and Susan made one more conscientious effort to think of herself, what she was doing, what she planned to do.

“Suppose I go to Auntie’s and simply wait—­” she began firmly.  The thought went no further.  Some little memory, drifting across the current, drew her after it.  A moment later, and the dreams had come back in full force.

“Well, anyway, I haven’t done anything yet and, if I don’t want to, I can always simply stop at the last moment,” she said to herself, as she began to walk home.

At the great gateway of the Wallace home, two riders overtook her; Isabel, looking exquisitely pretty in her dashing habit and hat, and her big cavalier were galloping home for a late luncheon.

“Come in and have lunch with us!” Isabel called gaily, reining in.  But Susan shook her head, and refused their urging resolutely.  Isabel’s wedding was but a few weeks off now, and Susan knew that she was very busy.  But, beside that, her heart was so full of her own trouble, that the sight of the other girl, radiant, adored, surrounded by her father and mother, her brothers, the evidences of a most unusual popularity, would have stabbed Susan to the heart.  What had Isabel done, Susan asked herself bitterly, to have every path in life made so lovely and so straight, while to her, Susan, even the most beautiful thing in the world had come in so clouded and distorted a form.

But he loved her!  And she loved him, and that was all that mattered, after all, she said to herself, as she reentered the house and went upstairs.