Mary came home the first of June and for a while enjoyed undisturbed the quiet of the old farmhouse. The neighbors, including Bradley and Rosamond Clay, were just beginning to call upon her and ask her to their entertainments when she received and accepted an offer as assistant teacher of mathematics at Wellesley. The first of September she returned to the college, stopping for several days in Washington and New York. The following summer she spent traveling with several girl graduates and the teacher of French in England, France and Italy. She sent Cornwall a remarkably fine photograph of herself taken at Rome. This he framed and kept upon his dresser. His mother, seeing and admiring the picture, asked;--"Who is the young lady, John?" "I do not know, but as soon as I can discover her name and domicile, I propose to propose." "It certainly is time; you are nearly thirty. I hope to see you married before I go, John." "Mother, I know no argument against that ancient and hallowed institution, and would not advise a friend against taking such a step, even at the present and ever-increasing high cost of living. I do not use such language. Since I first put on long trousers I have hunted high and low for a wife, and with a persistence equalling that of a young penniless widow, but without success. Just when it seems that within a few days I shall be the happy recipient of the congratulations of my friends who in their hearts feel certain I am about to fall victim to the wiles of a designing female person, cruel fate steps in and with peremptory halting gesture and commanding voice has always said;--thus far, but no father. You will doubtless live to see me at fifty struggle through a dance with the daughter of my old sweetheart while the son of another breaks us; and I, broken of wind and mopping my bald head, shall retire to a corner and rest while conversing with the hostess' grandmother. Seriously, mother, I intend to marry just as soon as a girl as good and sweet as you are will have me. I am beginning to think it will be Mary, or my stenographer. I have not seen Mary for more than five years; it is nearly a year since I heard from her. In some ways the photograph of that beautiful, fashionably-gowned girl reminds me of her. Do you suppose that's Mary? But she surely is not in Rome!--How do you like this, mother?" And John, whanging an accompaniment on the piano, sang this Arabian song: "THE MOTHER. "My daughter, 'tis time that thou wert wed; Ten summers already are over thy head; I must find you a husband, if under the sun, The conscript catcher has left us one. "THE DAUGHTER. "Dear mother, ONE husband will never do: I have so much love that I must have two; And I'll find for each, as you shall see, More love than both can bring to me.