d that happiness would slip by her altogether.

Robert Jennings is the salt of the earth. I believe I was as happy as
Ruth the first four weeks of her engagement, and then these clouds began
to gather. The first time I was conscious of them was the afternoon I
have just referred to, in late February.

I went into my living-room that day just to see that it was in order in
case of callers. It is difficult to keep a living-room in order when
your spoiled young society-sister is visiting you. Today in the middle
of one of the large cushions on the sofa appeared an indentation. From
beneath one corner of the cushion escaped the edge of a crushed
handkerchief. Open, face down, upon the floor lay an abandoned book. I
straightened the pillow and then picked up the book.

"Oh!" I exclaimed, actually out loud as my eyes fell on the title.
"This!"

It was a modern novel much under discussion, an unpleasant book,
reviewers pronounced it, and unnecessarily bold. I opened it. Certain
passages were marked with wriggling lines made with a soft pencil. I
read a marked paragraph or two, standing just where I was in the middle
of the room.

Suddenly the door-bell rang, twice, sharply, and almost immediately
afterward I heard some one shove open the front door.

I slipped the book behind the pillow which I had just straightened,
walked over to a geranium in the window, and nonchalantly snipped off a
leaf.

"Hello!" a man's cheerful voice called out. "Any one at home?"

"Yes, in here, Bob," I called back. "Come in."

Robert Jennings entered. He glowed as if he had just been walking up
hill briskly. He shook hands with me.

"Hello," he said, his gray eyes smiling pleasantly. "Been out today?
Ought to! Like spring. Where's Ruth?"

"Just gone to the Square. She'll be right back. Run out of cotton for
your breakfast-napkins."

"Breakfast-napkins!" he exclaimed, and laughed boyishly. I laughed, too.
"It doesn't seem quite possible, does it? Breakfast-napkins, and four
months ago I didn't even know her! Mind?" he asked abruptly, holding up
a silver case. He selected and lit a cigarette, flipping the charred
match straight as an arrow into the fireplace. He smoked in silence a
moment, smiling meditatively. "Mother's making some napkins, too!" he
broke out. "They're going to get on--Ruth and mother--beautifully.
'She's a dear!' That's what mother says of Ruth half a dozen times a
day. 'She's a dear!' And somehow the triteness of the