"Yes; he followed, and he then and there proposed."
"But, mother," with misgivings, "do you think that was sonnet-sort of love?"
"Sure of it, Margie."
"It sounds so ordinary. However, I wanted facts," in a tone of resigned dejection.
Impatient steps sounded in the hall. Hats and books were flung down outside, and two boys of seven and nine respectively came into the room. Marjorie's glance fell upon her young brothers dispassionately, staying her reflections on love.
"You look as if you had been in mischief," she remarked, as a certain air of agitation conveyed itself to her perception.
"Yes; and found out, too," said Sandy, the seven-year-old, disgustedly.
"You know that new man at 'The Ridges,' mother," burst in the older boy. "He's had the cheek to say we're not to go that way any more."
"But have you been, David, since the General died?"
"Of course we have, mother; why not? I'd got the keys."