It was her duty not to love Dan too hard and become a sentimental goose, she told herself as night after night she wrestled with her conscience, trying not to hate Thurley Precore as such small, dainty creatures, to every one’s surprise, can hate. Of course Dan would marry Thurley or else marry no one; he would build the lovely home for her and buy her endless pretty clothes, for every one knew Thurley could not even darn stockings skilfully—she admitted it with one of her boyish laughs! He would also buy her a new automobile and a concert grand piano; and she would be his loved and trusted wife, mother of his children, and when Lorraine would come to this part of her reverie, the dimples would become quivering dents of emotion and the orthodox prayers her father fancied were being said would vanish completely. Of course, she would comfort herself, Thurley would never make Dan happy—she sang too well! Even this was salt in the wound, for was not Thurley paid soloist at her father’s church and was not Lorraine obliged to sit Sunday after Sunday in the first pew and listen to Thurley’s wonderful voice sing glorious anthems while behind Lorraine was Dan Birge, present only because he could take Thurley home?... And Lorraine had to say to him, because it was more of her duty, “Good morning, Dan; wasn’t the solo wonderful? I think Thurley’s voice is better all the time. Good morning, Thurley dear, we’ve just been saying what a marvel you are—good-by. Oh, good morning, Mrs. Turner, I want to thank you for the invitation for the quilting party—yes, I’d love to come—oh, thank you—” and so on, her heart thumping uncontrollably fast. After greeting the congregation, she must go into the parsonage and cook dinner and try to eat as she listened to her father’s small talk; she must wash the dishes and return to the church to teach the Bible class in the three o’clock Sabbath school—while all the time she knew Dan and Thurley were whirling about the lovely hilly country, stopping at some shady, brook-embraced glen to eat their luncheon and make love! And again, a cold tea at six and Lorraine must once more play scullery maid and then go into the evening service and know Dan was behind her waiting impatiently until Thurley’s duties were ended and they might go back to Betsey Pilrig’s porch or parlor and with mellow moonlight as witness—_spoon!_ That was the truth—spoon! Lorraine’s flat little chest would heave excitedly and she would drop her eyes and force herself to count the dots in her frock—the third summer for it—to steady herself until she could glance up at Thurley in the choir loft and realize that she was the gladdest, loveliest thing in two worlds, a wild rose by all the poets’ dictionaries!