it was a keen dance, the swellest we ever had at the hall.  Some of us rowed the girls on the river between the dances; we had a keen time.  Well, after that I took her riding once or twice.  She rides the best of any girl I ever saw; her father has the finest horses in East Wood—­I guess he counts for quite a lot up there, he has the biggest department store and runs his own motor.  Well, Sammy, I never would of written one word of this to you, but when Alma came to go away we both realized how it was.  You know I have often had cases, as the boys call them, and a girl I was engaged to in Petrie told me once she hoped some day I’d get mine.  Well, she would be pleased if she knew that I have.  I have not slept since—­

“Sammy!” said Piet, suddenly stopping.

“Go on!” said she, again.

But Piet couldn’t go on.  He glanced at the next page, read, “Now, Sammy, it is up to you to decide,” skipped another page or two and read, “Neither Alma nor I would ever be happy if—­” glanced at a third; then the leaves fluttered in wild confusion to the floor, and, with something between a sob and a shout, he caught Sammy in his arms.

“My darling,” said Piet, an hour later, “if I release your right hand for ten minutes, do you think you could write a line to Mr. Anthony Gayley?  I would like to mail it when I go home to dress.”

“I was thinking I might wire—­” said Sammy, dreamily.

DR. BATES AND MISS SALLY

Sometimes Ferdie’s jokes were successful; sometimes they were not.  This was one of the jokes that didn’t succeed; but as it led to a chain of circumstances that proved eminently satisfactory, Ferdie’s wife praised him as highly for his share in it as if he really had done something rather meritorious.

At the time it occurred, however, nobody praised anybody, and feeling even ran pretty high for a time between Ferdie and Elsie, his wife, and her sister Sally, and Dr. Bates.

Dr. Samuel Bates was a rising young surgeon, plain, quiet, and kindly.  He was spending a few busy months in California, and writing dutifully home to friends and patients in Boston that he really could not free his hands to return just yet.  But Sally knew what that meant; she had known business to keep people in her neighborhood before.  So she was studiously unkind to the doctor, excusing herself to Elsie on the ground that nothing on earth would ever make her consider a man with fuzzy red hair and low collars.

Sally was a “daughter” and a “dame”; the doctor was the son of “Bates’s Blue-Ribbon Hair Renewer”—­awful facts against which the additional fact that he was rich and she was not, counted nothing.  Sally talked all the time; the doctor was the most silent of men.  Sally was twenty-two, the doctor thirty-five.  Sally loved to flirt; the doctor never paid any attention to women.  Altogether, it was the most impossible thing ever heard of, and Elsie might just as well stop thinking about it!