Sara's face was a study, but one easy to decipher; for the cheeks crimsoned with embarrassment, the lips quivering with indignation, and the eyes aglow with a happiness no mortification could conceal, told all her secret in living characters. Mrs. Macon nearly sprang from her chair.
"Who is it, Sara? Mr. Garth—Mr. Steene—that little professor of mathematics with the bald head, or—oh! tell me, is it Mr. Glendenning?"
"What a wonderful guesser you are!" cried Molly.
"And not born in Yankeedom, either!" laughed the professor, really pitying Sara's distress.
Morton came to the rescue, as usual.
"If it is Mr. Glendenning, that's no reason for blazening it around all over the country, as if you were too proud of it to keep still. Robert Glendenning's a nice fellow, but I never saw anybody quite good enough for Sara."
"Nor I," said Molly, entirely unruffled; "but she's like those of royal blood, you see—she makes a man honorable by marrying him."
Amid the laughter over the cool impudence of this assumption, Sara recovered herself somewhat, and received with tranquillity the hearty congratulations which followed.
"I'm not a bit surprised—I saw it as long ago as last Thanksgiving," observed Mrs. Macon.
"Yes," put in her husband placidly, "Mrs. Macon's foresight is almost up to the Irishman's."