uld not have
owned for the world that she could have missed him. Jerome was useful,
she admitted, and a comfortable friend; and she would have liked him
well enough if he would only omit that ridiculous yearly ceremony of
proposal.

It was Jerome's fortieth birthday when Anne refused him again. He
realized this as he went down the road in the moonlight, and doubt and
dismay began to creep into his heart. Anne and he were both getting
old--there was no disputing that fact. It was high time that he
brought her to terms if he was ever going to. Jerome was an
easy-going mortal and always took things placidly, but he did not
mean to have all those fifteen years of patient courting go for
nothing He had thought Anne would get tired of saying no, sooner or
later, and say yes, if for no other reason than to have a change; but
getting tired did not seem to run in the Stockard blood. She had said
no that night just as coolly and decidedly and unsentimentally as she
said it fifteen years before. Jerome had the sensation of going around
in a circle and never getting any further on. He made up his mind that
something must be done, and just as he got to the brook that divides
Deep Meadows West from Deep Meadows Central an idea struck him; it was
a good idea and amused him. He laughed aloud and slapped his thigh,
much to the amusement of two boys who were sitting unnoticed on the
railing of the bridge.

"There's old Jerome going home from seeing Anne Stockard," said one.
"Wonder what on earth he's laughing at. Seems to me if I couldn't get
a wife without hoeing a fifteen-year row, I'd give up trying."

But, then, the speaker was a Hamilton, and the Hamiltons never had any
perseverance.

Jerome, although a well-to-do man, owning a good farm, had, so to
speak, no home of his own. The old Irving homestead belonged to his
older brother, who had a wife and family. Jerome lived with them and
was so used to it he didn't mind.

At forty a lover must not waste time. Jerome thought out the details
that night, and next day he opened the campaign. But it was not until
the evening after that that Anne Stockard heard the news. It was her
niece, Octavia, who told her. The latter had been having a chat up the
lane with Sam Mitchell, and came in with a broad smile on her round,
rosy face and a twinkle in her eyes.

"I guess you've lost your beau this time, Aunt Anne. It looks as if he
meant to take you at your word at last."

"What on earth