She had had a rapturous week at the farm. She had never known anything like it. Aunt Elizabeth, of the Eastern Shore, lived in a sleepy town, and Anne's other brief vacations had been spent in more or less fashionable resorts. But here was a paradise of plenty; the big wide house, the spreading barns, the opulent garden, the rolling fields, the enchanting creatures who were sheltered by the barns and fed by the fields, and who in return gave payment of yellow cream and warm white eggs, and who lowed at night and cackled in the morning, and whose days were measured by the rising and the setting of the sun. She loved it all--the purring pussies, the companionable pups, the steady, faithful older dogs, the lambs in the pasture, the good things to eat. She was glowing with gratitude, and Maxwell was asking insistently, "Won't you, Anne?" She had never been so happy, and he was the source of her happiness. Against this background of vivid life the thought of Murray was a pale memory. So her wistful eyes met Maxwell's. "It would be lovely--to live here--always." Later, when she had started up-stairs with her candle, he had kissed her, leaning over the rail to watch her as she went up, and Anne had gone to sleep tremulous with the thought that her future would lie here in this great house with this fine and kindly man. Winifred, coming down at last, found that she had come too late. Maxwell told her as they motored up from the station. "Wish me happiness, Win. I am going to marry little Anne." It did not enter his head for a moment that the woman by his side loved him. He had thought that if she ever married him it would be a sort of concession on her part, a sacrifice to her interest in his future. He had a feeling that she would be glad if such a sacrifice were not demanded. But Winifred was not glad. "You are sure you are making no mistake, Max?" "Wait till you see her." Winifred waited and saw. "She's not in the least in love with him. She likes the warm nest she has fallen into. And she'll spoil his future. He'll settle down here, and he belongs to the world." He belonged at least to his constituency. "I've got to make a speech," he told the three women one morning, "in a town twenty miles away. If you girls would like the ride you can motor over with me. You needn't listen to my speech if you don't want to." Amy and Winifred said that of course they wanted to listen. Anne smiled happily and said nothing. She was, of course, glad to go, but Maxwell's speeches were to her the abstract things of life; the concrete things at this moment were the delicious dinner which was before her and the fact that in the barn, curled up in the hay, was a new family of kittens--little tabbies like their adoring mother. "Isn't it a lovely world?" she had said to her lover as she had sat in the loft with the cuddly cats in her lap. "Yes."