“I said I was not going to listen to your nonsense. I’ll kiss you right in sight of this farmer’s team,” he warned. “You’re going to belong to me and that is all that matters.” CHAPTER VI “Gosh, you should see the tilt of his gold-banded cigar,” was Ali Baba’s comment to Hopeful the day the engagement was announced with a special heading, and also the fact that “Mr. Birge has begun plans for building his permanent residence on the beautiful site overlooking the lake. It is understood it will be named Fairview in accordance with Miss Precore’s wishes and elaborate furnishings have been ordered from New York.” “I’m sorry for Lorraine,” Hopeful answered, “but I bet a cookie ’Raine goes to see Thurley and takes her an embroidered set for a present. She’s as brave as a lion and sweet as an angel! And I bet you a mince pie Thurley Precore isn’t going to be happy.” “You ain’t sayin’ anything against Thurley?” demanded Ali Baba. “Land, no, I set a sight by Thurley the same as by Lorraine, and I like Dan as well as either of ’em. It’s just a mistake, Ali Baba, and you know what mistakes in love do.” Her hand pointed in the direction of the upper front rooms. “Well, wait and see. Thurley was meant always to sing for her supper, the same as Lorraine was made to cook supper for a good man.” “I guess Dan ain’t different from all men—made to _eat_ supper no matter how much singin’ or cookin’ goes to gettin’ the vittles on the table,” was Ali Baba’s emphatic summary of the situation. * * * * * Lorraine did call on Thurley and bring a daintily wrapped blue tissue paper parcel containing one of her embroidered “sets” for the washstand of any conventional, country spare room. Lorraine had remained with the older generation in her standards of house furnishings and necessities. The blue tissue paper matched her blue batiste frock with its crisp ruffles and the ribbon on her hat. Lorraine had made the dress and trimmed the hat, and it gave the impression of good taste and praiseworthy industry. There was nothing Lorraine could or would not attempt to do, once convinced it was her duty. She had the angelic sweetness of really unselfish natures and the accompanying stubbornness of which martyrs are made. She was a trifle weak, perhaps, during a crisis, and certainly lacked Thurley’s aggression and power of argument. But Lorraine could sustain a situation—long after Thurley was forced, by temperament, to abandon it! Not even her estimable father dreamed that on the day Lorraine’s mother died, the child soul of her had closed and grownups scratched on it in vain. It was her duty, she was convinced, not to mourn openly.