Then he saw her approaching from the other end of the street, not distant, but divided from him by the eyes of all these people sitting and puttering around in their front yards. He thought she walked as if she were sad or good or something. And he had this consolation, as she finally turned in and went up the steps of the Adams’ cottage, he was sure that she had seen him. He was sure that their eyes had met. He also observed when he came down into the street to his own home that she had not stopped on the porch with her mother, but had gone directly inside. CHAPTER III When you are in love, everything is important and everything is secret. You become a consummate actor and liar in vain, because the whole world knows your secret almost as soon as you do. That evening at the dinner table, George was so gay, so full of himself, so ready to laugh and make a joke that Mrs. Cutter was beside herself with pride and happiness. “He is such a good boy, so unconscious of his good looks and his intellect,” she told Mr. Cutter when they were alone together after dinner. “Intellect!” said Mr. Cutter in that tone of voice. “Yes; you know how smart he is; but he is not the least conceited, just light-hearted and happy as he should be at his age. I say it shows he is a good boy.” “Where is he now?” Mr. Cutter wanted to know. The question appeared to Mrs. Cutter to be irrelevant. She said she did not know; why? “Nothing,” answered her husband. She said he was around somewhere, probably in his room. She went to the bottom of the stairs. “Georgie!” she called. No answer. Well, then he must be out front somewhere, and went to prove that he was. But she could not find him. Then she came back and wanted to know of Mr. Cutter what difference did it make, if they did not know where he was? George was no longer a child. Couldn’t he trust his own son? Oh, yes; in reason he could and did trust him. “But I’ll tell you one thing, Maggie,” he added, laying aside his paper and looking her squarely in the face, “George should get married.” “Married; just as he is ready to enjoy his youth and not even out of the university yet--and only twenty-one. What do you mean?” she demanded indignantly. “That a blaze-faced horse and a red-headed man are both vain things for safety,” he retorted. “Do you know anything wrong about George?” she demanded, after a gasping pause. “No.” “A single thing?” “Not a single thing. I was merely stating a natural fact.” She had risen, a little, slim, fiery-eyed woman. She drew herself up. He watched her ascend. He refused to quail beneath the spark in her eye. “Mr. Cutter,” she began ominously, because she gave him this title only when she was ominous, “when you married me I had red hair. My hair is still red.”