“What did he do then?” chorused half a dozen awed voices.
“Oh, he made the best of it and married the sister,” Irma replied with a shrug. “I suppose he felt that he couldn’t very well do anything else. Perhaps he didn’t have the courage to. But one day before his wedding he went to the house and found Miss Merton alone. She had been crying and he felt so sorry that he tried to find out what was the matter. Somehow they came to an understanding, but it was too late. Three or four years after that he was drowned during a storm at sea. Miss Merton never quite got over it all, and it changed her disposition, I guess.”
“What a sad story.” Constance Stevens’ blue eyes were soft with sympathy.
“That makes Miss Merton seem like a different person, doesn’t it?” Marjorie thoughtfully knitted her brows.
“I suppose that is why she acts as though she hated young people,” offered Mary. “We probably remind her of her cheated youth.”
“She should have been particular enough to let that stupid ensign know that she was she,” criticized practical Jerry. “I’m glad I haven’t a sister. There’s no danger of any future aspirant for my hand and heart getting me mixed with Hal.”
The sentimental shadow cast upon the group by Irma’s romantic tale disappeared in a gale of laughter.
“Honestly, Jerry Macy, you haven’t the least idea of romance,” giggled Susan. “Here Irma tells us a real love story and you spoil it all about a minute afterward.”
“Can’t help it,” asserted Jerry stoutly. “I have to say what I think.”
“Oh, here come Captain and Charlie,” cried Marjorie, sighting a gracious figure in white descending the steps with Charlie in tow. “That means dinner is about to be served, children. Our farewell feast to Lieutenant Mary Raymond.”