Twenty years old! Susan's tears scalded her eyes. Only a little older than her cousin Ruth was now--Ruth who often seemed to her, and to everybody, younger than herself. "And she was good--I know she was good!" thought Susan. "_He_ was bad, and the people who took his part against her were bad. But _she_ was good!" She started as Sam's voice, gay and light, sounded directly behind her. "What are you doing in a graveyard?" cried he. "How did you find me?" she asked, paling and flushing and paling again. "I've been following you ever since you left home." He might have added that he did not try to overtake her until they were where people would be least likely to see. "Whose graves are those?" he went on, cutting across a plot and stepping on several graves to join her. She was gazing at her mothers simple headstone. His glance followed hers, he read. "Oh--beg pardon," he said confusedly. "I didn't see." She turned her serious gaze from the headstone to his face, which her young imagination transfigured. "You know--about her?" she asked. "I--I--I've heard," he confessed. "But--Susie, it doesn't amount to anything. It happened a long time ago--and everybody's forgotten--and----" His stammering falsehoods died away before her steady look. "How did you find out?" "Someone just told me," replied she. "And they said you'd never respect or marry a girl who had no father. No--don't deny--please! I didn't believe it--not after what we had said to each other." Sam, red and shifting uneasily, could not even keep his downcast eyes upon the same spot of ground. "You see," she went on, sweet and grave, "they don't understand what love means--do they?" "I guess not," muttered he, completely unnerved. Why, how seriously the girl had taken him and his words--such a few words and not at all definite! No, he decided, it was the kiss. He had heard of girls so innocent that they thought a kiss meant the same as being married. He got himself together as well as he could and looked at her. "But, Susie," he said, "you're too young for anything definite--and I'm not halfway through college." "I understand," said she. "But you need not be afraid I'll change." She was so sweet, so magnetic, so compelling that in spite of the frowns of prudence he seized her hand. At her touch he flung prudence to the winds. "I love you," he cried; and putting his arm around her, he tried to kiss her. She gently but strongly repulsed him. "Why not, dear?" he pleaded. "You love me--don't you?" "Yes," she replied, her honest eyes shining upon his. "But we must wait until we're married. I don't care so much for the others, but I'd not want Uncle George to feel I had disgraced him." "Why, there's no harm in a kiss," pleaded he. "Kissing you is--different," she replied. "It's--it's--marriage."