old stone wall, half tumbled down, the tall well-sweep, and the patch of
sunflowers in the garden, with Aunt Betsy bending behind them, picking
tomatoes for dinner, and shading her eyes with her hand to look at him
as he drove up.

It was all very rural, no doubt, and very charming to people who liked
it, but Wilford did not like it, and he was wishing himself safely in
New York when a golden head flashed for an instant before the window and
then disappeared as Katy emerged into view, waiting at the door to
receive him and looking so sweetly in her dress of white with the
scarlet geranium blossoms in her hair, that Wilford forgot the
homeliness of her surroundings, thinking only of her and how soft and
warm was the little hand he held as she led him into the parlor. He did
not know she was so beautiful, he said to himself, and he feasted his
eyes upon her, forgetful for a time of all else. But afterward when
Katy left him for a moment he noticed the well-worn carpet, the six
cane-seated chairs, the large stuffed rocking chair, the fall-leaf
table, with its plain wool spread, and, lastly, the really expensive
piano, the only handsome piece of furniture the room contained, and
which he rightly guessed must have come from Morris.

"What would Juno or Mark say?" he kept repeating to himself, half
shuddering as he recalled the bantering proposition to accompany him
made by Mark Ray, the only young man whom he considered fully his equal
in New York.

Wilford knew these feelings were unworthy of him and he tried to shake
them off, listlessly turning over the books upon the table, books which
betokened in some one both taste and talent of no low order.