“Lovey, Auntie doesn’t like to see you wearing a pin like that!” Mrs. Lancaster said, noticing it with troubled eyes.  “Didn’t Peter send it to you?”

“Yes’m,” said Susan, dimpling, as she kissed the older woman.

“Don’t you know that a man has no respect for a girl who doesn’t keep him a little at a distance, dear?”

“Oh,—­is—­that—­so!” Susan spun her aunt about, in a mad reel.

“Susan!” gasped Mrs. Lancaster.  Her voice changed, she caught the girl by the shoulders, and looked into the radiant face.  “Susan?” she asked.  “My child—–!”

And Susan strangled her with a hug, and whispered, “Yes—­yes—­yes!  But don’t you dare tell anyone!”

Poor Mrs. Lancaster was quite unable to tell anyone anything for a few moments.  She sat down in her place, mechanically returning the evening greetings of her guests.  Her handsome, florid face was quite pale.  The soup came on and she roused herself to serve it; dinner went its usual way.

But going upstairs after dinner, Mary Lou, informed of the great event in some mysterious way, gave Susan’s waist a girlish squeeze and said joyously, “Ma had to tell me, Sue!  I am so glad!” and Virginia, sitting with bandaged eyes in a darkened room, held out both hands to her cousin, later in the evening, and said, “God bless our dear little girl!” Billy knew it too, for the next morning he gave Susan one of his shattering hand-grasps and muttered that he was “darned glad, and Coleman was darned lucky,” and Georgie, who was feeling a little better than usual, though still pale and limp, came in to rejoice and exclaim later in the day, a Sunday.

All of this made Susan vaguely uneasy.  It was true, of course, and yet somehow it was all too new, too strange to be taken quite happily as a matter of course.  She could only smile when Mary Lou assured her that she must keep a little carriage; when Virginia sighed, “To think of the good that you can do”; when Georgie warned her against living with the old people.

“It’s awful, take my word for it!” said Georgie, her hat laid aside, her coat loosened, very much enjoying a cup of tea in the dining-room.  Young Mrs. O’Connor did not grow any closer to her husband’s mother.  But it was to be noticed that toward her husband himself her attitude was changed.  Joe was altogether too smart to be cooped up there in the Mission, it appeared; Joe was working much too hard, and yet he carried her breakfast upstairs to her every morning; Joe was an angel with his mother.

“I wish—­of course you can explain to Peter now—­but I wish that I could give you a little engagement tea,” said Georgie, very much the matron.