He had, he said, a big pair of tabbies who slept in the hay and came up to the dairy when the milk was strained.  There were two blue porcelain dishes for their sacred use.  There was, he said, milk and to spare.  He grew eloquent as he told of the number of quarts daily.  He bragged of his butter.  His cheeses had won prizes at county fairs.  As for chickens—­they had fresh eggs and broilers without end.  He had his own hives, too, white-clover honey.  And his housekeeper made hot biscuit.  In a month or two there’d be asparagus and strawberries.  Say!  Yes, he was eloquent.

Anne was hungry.  There had been a meagre dinner that evening.  The other girls had not seemed to care.  But Anne had cared.

“I’m starved,” she had said as she had surveyed the table.  “Let’s pawn the spoons and have one square meal.”

“Anne!”

“Oh, we’re beggars on horseback”—­bitterly—­“and I hate it.”

It was her moment of rebellion against the tyranny of tradition.  Amy had had such a moment years ago when her mother had taken her away from school.  Amy had a brilliant mind, and she had loved study, but her mother had brought her to see that there was no money for college.  “You’d better have a year or two in society, Amy.  And this craze for higher education is rather middle-class.”

Ethel’s rebellion had come when she had wanted to marry a round-faced chap who lived across the street.  They had played together from childhood.  His people were pleasant folks but lacked social background.  So Ethel’s romance had been nipped in the bud.  The round-faced chap had married another girl.  And now Amy at thirty and Ethel at twenty-five were crystallizing into something rather hard and brilliant, as Anne would perhaps crystallize if something didn’t happen.

The something which happened was Maxwell Sears.  Anne listened to the things he said about his farm and felt that they couldn’t be true.

“It sounds like a fairy tale.”

“It isn’t.  And it’s all tremendously interesting.”

He looked very much alive as he said it, and Anne felt the thrill of his energy and enthusiasm.  Murray was never enthusiastic; neither were Amy and Ethel.  They were all indeed a bit petrified.

Before he left her Maxwell asked Anne if he could call.  He came promptly two nights later and brought with him a bunch of violets and a box of chocolates.  Anne pinned the violets in the front of the gray frock that gave her the look of a cloistered nun, and ate up the chocolates.

Amy was shocked.  “Anne, you positively gobbled—­”

“I didn’t.”

“Well, you ate a pound at least.”

Anne protested.  Maxwell had eaten a lot, and Ethel and Amy had eaten a few, and Murray had come in.

“You remember, Amy, Murray came in.”

“He didn’t touch one, Anne.  He never eats chocolates.”

“He’s afraid of getting fat.”

“Anne!”