"Good old Sam," said Peter, as we stood at the gate by the old lilac,
who was beginning to beplume himself more richly than any of his
compatriots in Hayesboro--in honor of Peter, I felt sure--and watched
Sam and the Byrd jog away in the wagon down Providence Road. "He'll make
his mark on his generation yet, Betty. This is just a temporary eclipse
of the effulgence of a young planet that will shine with the warm light
of humanity when the time comes. There is no man like him. O Samboy!"

"Oh, I love you, Peter, for feeling that way," I exclaimed, heartily, as
I grasped his arm with enthusiasm. "You are so wonderful, Peter."

"Dear, dearest Betty," said Peter, as he put his arm through mine, and
we both began to swing back and forth on the gate. "It is so marvelous
to have a woman respond to your every mood as you do to mine. It is like
having in one's possession an angel incarnate in her own harp."

"Oh, Peter you _are_ wonderful!" I again exclaimed, because I felt that
way and had no other feeling to draw another remark from. It is so
satisfactory to love a man with no variations. I cannot see why girls
like to tremble and blush and chill and glow and get angry and repentant
about the men they love, as Edith does about Clyde Tolbot. I wish I
could make them all understand the great calmness of true love like mine
for Peter.

The five days that Peter stayed with mother, Hayesboro did many other
things to him. The mayor got up a barbecue in his honor, and they had
nine political speeches and two roast pigs and a lamb. Peter came home
pale, but we decided before we went to bed to let the hero of "The
Emergence" get beaten up a little in the strike before he made his great