“It’s Sylvia; she has come out for a couple of days. And, O David, a telegram came for Betty while you were gone, from Harry Leroy. He’ll be on to-night, and he’s not going back to Indiana any more. He has a position here with his cousin.”
“Hum!” Mr. Harlow looked doubtfully considerate. “How old is Betty? Fifteen?”
“She will be nineteen in September.”
“Oh, well, she’s nothing but a child yet,” said Mr. Harlow, in a tone that defied denial.
“Nothing but a child,” assented his wife, cheerfully.
There was a pause. “How old were you when we were married, Min?”
“Twenty. It was entirely too young.”
“I remember,” Mr. Harlow’s voice was reflective, “my mother told me she was married at seventeen and my grandmother was married at fifteen; and I had an aunt who——”
“If you remember any more I’ll go in the house!” said his wife, indignantly. “What is the matter with you, David? Where have you been this morning?”
“Well, Min, I’ve something to tell you. I——” he stopped, his voice altered and his eyes became suddenly alert. “Hello! What’s that over there?”