When Helen and George became engaged in August the Carrol house was simply an old gray farmhouse, overtaken years ago by the spreading skirts of Shannon, but never assimilated. This was due to the fact that when Wiggs Street was lengthened, it must be made straight whatever happened. The old house was left far to one side on a wide lawn. No one lived in it. Altheas and roses bloomed among the weeds, like gentle folk who have lost their station in life and make common lot with the mean and the poor. Grass grew between the bricks of the walk which led to the front door. There was a hedge of bulbous-bodied boxwood on either side of this walk. The windows of the old house looked out on this green and growing desolation with the vacant stare they always have in an empty house. But since the end of August carpenters, plasterers and painters had swarmed over it and through it. Laborers had cleaned and cleared and pruned. At last came van loads of carpets, furniture and draperies. These had been smoothed, placed and hung inside. Now it looked like the same old house that had suddenly come into a modest fortune, gone to town and bought itself a lot of nice things to wear. Not a gable had been changed, but the new roof had been painted green. The walls were so white that they glistened. The windows were so clean that they looked like the bright eyes of a lady with her veil lifted. On the evening of her first day in this house, Helen stood on the veranda waiting for George, watching the elm leaves sweeping past, a golden shower in the November wind. She had been very busy all day, not that there was anything to do, because everything had been done. But she had been going over her possessions, feeling the fullness and vastness of her estate. She had silver, yes, and fine linen. Her furniture was good, golden oak, every piece. Her rugs were florescent, very cheerful. She needed more furniture; the rooms looked sparsely settled, especially the parlor. A bookcase would help, and a few pictures on the walls, but all in good time. She would be contented, ask for nothing else. She meant to be a thrifty, helpful wife, do her own work, take care of George. She was simply speechlessly happy. So it was just as well she had no one to talk to. She wished to be alone except for George, to concentrate upon all this joy. It seemed too good to be true. She had this house, to be sweetened into a home, and all these things; above and transcending everything, she had George. She was absolutely sure of him. Is there anything more certain than sunshine when the sun shines?