"I? But I want to know now. Just the facts. You can't make up things on nothing," disconsolately. "Our literary guild next month wants a poem--a sonnet by preference--on Love. Such a subject! I could imagine a lot. But I don't know." Mrs. Bethune's eyes were full of laughter, but her face was grave as she looked at her discontented young daughter. "People's experiences vary," she said reminiscently. "Do they? But yours would do, mother--just to get a fact for a foundation. Love seems such a shimmery, slippery thing." "It was behind the door--at a party first. He had asked me to look at a picture----" "Behind the door! Father!" exclaimed Marjorie, breaking in on the reminiscence. "Oh, mother!" Mrs. Bethune laughed. "You'll understand some day, Marjorie. That was the beginning; after that, I kept out of his way----" She paused. "Yes?" said Marjorie interestedly. "I don't wonder. Behind the door! I couldn't put that in a sonnet." "It was difficult to meet alone," went on the mother. "We lived four miles apart, And I was afraid. I didn't want him to speak, and yet----" "Didn't you love him then? Perhaps I could put that. Or did loving him make you shy?" "Perhaps. But he was masterful--he found a way." "Masterful," mused Marjorie, much exercised at this new presentation of her scholarly father. "Then love alters characters, if it made father masterful and you shy. Well, those are at least some facts. Thank you. What else, mother? Tell me exactly, please." "One day after lunch, when he had come over, I remembered that I had dropped my thimble under the table, and I went back to the dining-room to look for it." "And he followed?" "Yes; he followed, and he then and there proposed." "But, mother," with misgivings, "do you think that was sonnet-sort of love?" "Sure of it, Margie." "It sounds so ordinary. However, I wanted facts," in a tone of resigned dejection. Impatient steps sounded in the hall. Hats and books were flung down outside, and two boys of seven and nine respectively came into the room. Marjorie's glance fell upon her young brothers dispassionately, staying her reflections on love. "You look as if you had been in mischief," she remarked, as a certain air of agitation conveyed itself to her perception. "Yes; and found out, too," said Sandy, the seven-year-old, disgustedly. "You know that new man at 'The Ridges,' mother," burst in the older boy. "He's had the cheek to say we're not to go that way any more." "But have you been, David, since the General died?" "Of course we have, mother; why not? I'd got the keys." "As if keys mattered anyhow!" put in Sandy. "Anyone can climb over that wanted to. It's the nearest way." "But it's private ground, not a public path. Only the General was kind to you." "Yes, and this man's a beast," viciously.