"I know who that is," said Susan; "it's that boy, and he's smelt cinnamon rolls and come to lunch. How do you do?"
Lorenzo, brown and merry, was getting in at the window.
"Why, you've really been weeding!" exclaimed Susan.
"Of course! I've tended the garden ever since you gave it up."
"I declare! Well, I never. Jane, we must give him a bite of something."
"Yes, that's what I came for," said Lorenzo, cheerfully, "cookies, jelly-roll,—anything simple and handy. Madeleine and I were out walking, discussing our affairs, and when I stopped for the garden, she went on for her mail. I'm awfully hungry."
"People say you're engaged to her," said Susan. Jane turned to get the tin of cookies.
"Yes, naturally. People say so much. She is a pretty girl, isn't she?—but then there's Emily Mead. I must look at myself on all sides and consider carefully. Old Mr. Cattermole took me to drive yesterday and told me that he was healthy and his dead wife was healthy and that, except for what killed him, Mr. Mead was healthy, too; and there was Emily, perfectly healthy and the only grandchild, and why didn't I come over often,—it wasn't but a step."
"Well, you do beat all," said Susan. Jane offered the tin of cookies. Lorenzo took six. They were all laughing.
Later, when he'd gone away, Susan said, almost shyly this time: "Jane, I don't want to interfere, but he is in love."