er who you'll slaughter _this_ afternoon."

It was that afternoon that I met Breckenridge Sewall.

It was a week from that afternoon that two dozen American Beauties
formed an enormous and fragrant center-piece on the dining-room table at
old 240 Main Street. Suspended on a narrow white ribbon above the roses
Edith had hung from the center light a tiny square of pasteboard. It
bore in engraved letters the name of Breckenridge Sewall.

The family were deeply impressed when they came in for dinner. The
twins, Oliver and Malcolm, who were in college at the time, were
spending part of their vacation in Hilton; and my sister Lucy was there
too. There was quite a tableful. I can hear now the Oh's and Ah's as I
sat nonchalantly nibbling a cracker.

"Not too fast, Ruth, not too fast!" anxious Alec had cautioned.

"For the love o' Mike! Hully G!" had ejaculated Oliver and Malcolm,
examining the card.

"O Ruth, tell us about it," my sister Lucy in awed tones had exclaimed.

I shrugged. "There's nothing to tell," I said. "I met Mr. Sewall at a
tea not long ago, as one is apt to meet people at teas, that's all."

Edith from the head of the table, sparkling, too joyous even to attempt
her soup, had sung out, "I'm proud of you, rascal! You're a wonder, you
are! Listen, people, little sister here is going to do something
splendid one of these days--she is!"

CHAPTER II

BRECKENRIDGE SEWALL

When I was a little girl, Idlewold, the estate of Mrs. Leonard Jackson
where I first met Breckenridge Sewall, was a region of rough pasture
lands. Thither we children used to go forth on Saturday afternoons on
marauding expeditions. It was covered in those days with a network of
mysteriously winding cow-paths leading from shadow into sunshine, from
dark groves through underbrush and berry-bushes to bubbling brooks. Many
a thrilling adventure did I pursue with my brothers through those
alluring paths, never knowing what treasure or surprise lay around the
next curve. Sometimes it would be a cave appearing in the dense growth
of wild grape and blackberry vines; sometimes a woodchuck's hole; a
snake sunning himself; a branch of black thimble-berries; a baby calf
beside its mother, possibly; or perhaps even a wild rabbit or partridge.

Mrs. Leonard Jackson's elaborate brick mansion stood where more than
once bands of young vandals were guilty of stealing an ear or two of
corn for roasting purposes, to be blackened over a forbidden