Dan smiled; the savage, buoyant Dan had vanished. Fine, hard lines were about his mouth and his eyes were staring, non-expressive. Every one in the Corners knew what Lorraine had “put up with” since Thurley Precore had given him the mitten and he had engaged himself for spite—the weeks when Dan drank, Lorraine forgiving and praying over him, the times when he deliberately ogled other girls—not the nice girls, either—those women with hard, bold eyes who always live at the outskirts of any small town, coming in Saturday nights to prance along the streets arm in arm, making every one clear out of their way, who laugh loudly and make humorous comments when they pass travelling men. Dan had not only talked with these persons—he had taken them driving in his car. Still Lorraine had refused to believe the reports. She had wept her tears and said her prayers in the solitude of her room with only the hope chest as confidant. Then the minister talked to Dan—with the result that Lorraine, with unheralded defiance, came into the room during the scene and told her father she was Dan’s bespoken wife; she would always be willing to “bear with him.” “Seems as if there’s nothing he can do to get rid of her except hang himself,” was the village verdict. “’Course he’s sweet on Thurley—and whatever is she doing all this time? I guess Miss Clergy has spent enough money to teach her how to sing,” would be the answer. Almost indifferently Dan had resigned himself to his fate and the new house began to near completion. “I hope he won’t break out wild after they’re married,” Ali Baba said. “A Birge never married no woman with spirit; they all die and leave a son,” Hopeful used to answer. “Well, Thurley knew her mind, no matter if it was right or wrong,” would be Betsey’s consolation. “Would you like to be married this fall?” Dan finally asked Lorraine on this Sunday afternoon. “It’s a little soon, but I guess I could be ready,” she fibbed according to feminine custom. “Well, I suppose we may as well! Say when.” Lorraine’s cheeks were crimson with excitement. “November?” His face clouded. November was a semi-sacred month, Thurley’s birth month—but then, was not all the village sacred because Thurley had lived there? Where could he turn without a haunting memory, what person could he pass without recalling some incident in their life together? “All right—about the fifteenth; I’ll be ready to get away then. We’ll go to New York for a couple of weeks. Would you like that?” Lorraine nodded. They were both thinking the same thing: suppose fate should cause them to meet Thurley Precore? When Dan left her that night, kissing her dutifully and saying some polite thing about being a lucky fellow, Lorraine went upstairs to the little hope chest and began counting over her woman’s trifles. “Poor Thurley,” she said out loud, “he’s mine now ... and he will learn to care.”