The path was straightened for Barbara after the departure of her guests. The Vegetable Man’s daughter was incompetent, but she was good-natured and cheerful. Her shrill soprano voice rose at all hours of the day in the request to be waltzed around again, Willie, around, and around, and around. Her “Steady Company” made regular calls at the kitchen every evening that he was off his run, and sat on the back porch, with his feet on the railing and his pipe in his mouth, scarcely uttering a word during the call. The Vegetable Man’s daughter proved to be a fluent conversationalist, and judging from the scraps of sound that floated around to the front porch, now and then, the evening visits seemed to consist of monologue, sandwiched in between a kiss of greeting and one of parting. Promptly at half-past ten the Steady Company would withdraw, and the Vegetable Man’s daughter would renew her request to be waltzed around again, Willie, all the way up the back stairs. Perhaps it was the thought of her absent lover that prevented her success as a cook, for it was certain that the day after one of his calls the bread was apt to be unsalted, the napkins forgotten, and the milk left to sour. But she was strong and willing, patient with Barbara’s theories, and fond of the children. Something of the old-time comfort returned to the house, and Barbara found time to mingle with the young people of Auburn, and to enjoy the first youthful companionship she had had since her return from college. On some of these occasions she met Susan, who greeted her with a stiff smile, in which wistfulness was scarcely hidden. There was nothing of regret in Barbara’s cool nod. Susan was not as necessary to her as she was to Susan, and in the popularity which came to her as readily with the young people at home as at school, she easily forgot the quiet girl on the outskirts of the jolly crowd. Gayeties began to thicken upon the approach of school-days, and Barbara took active part in all of them. In the relief about her mother’s condition, all serious thoughts took wing, and Barbara played the butterfly with light heart. “The Infinite of the Ego” lay untouched in a pigeon-hole of her desk, and she felt no inclination to write anything heavier than the semi-weekly letters that merrily told the life at home to her mother. The taste of play-time was very sweet after the hard summer; and tennis and boating and driving filled the days of early autumn to the brim. But the recess was of short duration. Barbara, coming in from an afternoon tea, was met in the hall by the Vegetable Man’s daughter. “I’ve something to tell you, Miss Barbara,” she said. “What is it, Libbie? Are we out of eggs? I remembered, after I had gone, that I had forgotten to order more.” “No’m, it ain’t eggs; it’s me. We eloped this afternoon.” “What!” “Yes’m; me and my Steady Company. He got off his run this afternoon, and we thought we might as well do it now and be done with it.” “So you’re married?”