help she accepted so casually, climbing into his big car--were all
evidences that she was as unconscious of his presence as Stan was.
But in reality the future for herself of which Sandy confidently
dreamed was one in which, in all innocent complacency, she took her
place beside Owen as his wife. Clumsy, wild-haired, bashful he might
be at twenty-two, but the farsighted Sandy saw him ten years, twenty
years later, well groomed, assured of manner, devotedly happy in his
home life. She considered him entirely unable to take care of
himself, he needed a good wife. And a good, true, devoted wife Sandy
knew she would be, fulfilling to her utmost power all his lonely,
little-boy dreams of birthday parties and Christmas revels.

To do her justice, she really and deeply cared for him. Not with
passion, for of that as yet she knew nothing, but with a real and
absorbing affection. Sandy read "Love in a Valley" and the "Sonnets
from the Portuguese" in these days, and thought of Owen. Now and
then her well-disciplined little heart surprised her by an
unexpected flutter in his direction.

She duly brought him home with her to dinner on the evening after
her little talk with her parents. Owen was usually to be found
browsing about the region where Sandy played marches twice a week
for sewing classes in a neighborhood house. They often met, and
Sandy sometimes went to have tea with his mother, and sometimes, as
to-day, brought him home with her.

Owen had with him the letters, pamphlets and booklet issued by the
American School of Domestic Science, and after dinner, while the
Salisbury boys wrestled with their lessons, the three others and
Owen gathered about the drawing-room table, in the late daylight,