Peter was not, at this time, quite the ideal lover.  But in what was he ever conventional; when did he ever do the expected thing?  No; she would gain so much more than any other woman ever had gained by her marriage, she would so soon enter on a life that would make these days seem only a troubled dream, that she could well afford to dispense with some of the things her romantic nature half expected now.  It might not be quite comprehensible in him, but it was certainly a convenience for her that he seemed to so dread an announcement just now.  She must have some gowns for the entertainments that would be given them; she must have some money saved for trousseau; she must arrange a little tea at home, when, the boarders being eliminated, Peter could come to meet a few of the very special old friends.  These things took time.  Susan spent the dreamy, happy afternoon in desultory planning.

Peter went out at three o’clock with Barney White, looking in to nod Susan a smiling good-by.  Susan returned to her dreams, determined that she would find the new bond as easy or as heavy as he chose to make it.  She had only to wait, and fate would bring this wonderful thing her way; it would be quite like Peter to want to do the thing suddenly, before long, summon his aunt and uncle, her aunt and cousins, and announce the wedding and engagement to the world at once.

Lost in happy dreams, she did not see Thorny watching her, or catch the intense, wistful look with which Mr. Brauer so often followed her.

Susan had a large share of the young German’s own dreams just now, a demure little Susan in a checked gingham apron, tasting jelly on a vine-shaded porch, or basting a chicken in a sunny kitchen, or pouring her lord’s coffee from a shining pot.  The dream Susan’s hair was irreproachably neat, she wore shining little house-slippers, and she always laughed out,—­the ringing peal of bells that Henry Brauer had once heard in the real Susan’s laugh,—­when her husband teased her about her old fancy for Peter Coleman.  And the dream Susan was the happy mother of at least five little girls—­all girls!—­a little Susan that was called “Sanna,” and an Adelaide for the gross-mutter in the old country, and a Henrietta for himself—–­

Clean and strong and good, well-born and ambitious, gentle, and full of the love of books and music and flowers and children, here was a mate at whose side Susan might have climbed to the very summit of her dreams.  But she never fairly looked at Mr. Brauer, and after a few years his plump dark little dumpling of a Cousin Linda came from Bremen to teach music in the Western city, and to adore clever Cousin Heinrich, and then it was time to hunt for the sunny kitchen and buy the shining coffee-pot and change little Sanna’s name to Linchen.

For Susan was engaged to Peter Coleman!  She went home on this particular evening to find a great box of American Beauty roses waiting for her, and a smaller box with them—­the pearl crescent again!  What could the happy Susan do but pin on a rose with the crescent, her own cheeks two roses, and go singing down to dinner?