near her fire for her mother, and herself remained standing, with her
glass of milk in her hand.

"Mama," she said suddenly, "I suppose I'm what you'd call engaged."

"O Mathilde! not to that boy who was here to-day?"

"Why not to him?"

"I know nothing about him."

"I don't know very much myself. Yes, it's Pete Wayne. Pierson his name
is, but every one calls him Pete. How strange it was that I did not even
know his first name when you asked me!"

A single ray pierced Mrs. Farron's depression: Vincent had known,
Vincent's infallibility was confirmed. She did not know what to say. She
sat looking sadly, obliquely at the floor like a person who has been
aggrieved. She was wondering whether she should be to her daughter a
comrade or a ruler, a confederate or a policeman. Of course in all
probability the thing would be better stopped. But could this be
accomplished by immediate action, or could she invite confidences and yet
commit herself to nothing?

She raised her eyes.

"I do not approve of youthful marriages," she said.

"O Mama! And you were only eighteen yourself."