counting--excepting, of course, Father and Mother. But one could not
always have one's father and mother. There would come a time when--

Jerry's letter came the next day--by special delivery. He had gone
straight home from the station and begun to write to me. (How like
Jerry that was--particularly the special-delivery stamp!) The most of
his letter, aside from the usual lover's rhapsodies, had to do with
plans for the summer--what we would do together at the Westons'
summer cottage in Newport. He said he should run up to Andersonville
early--very early; just as soon as I was back from college, in fact,
so that he might meet Father and Mother, and put that ring on my
finger.

And while I read the letter, I just knew he would do it. Why, I could
even see the sparkle of the ring on my finger. But in five minutes
after the letter was folded and put away, I knew, with equal
certitude--that he wouldn't.

It was like that all that spring term. While under the spell of the
letters, as I read them, I saw myself the adored wife of Jerry Weston,
and happy ever after. All the rest of the time I knew myself to be
plain Mary Marie Anderson, forever lonely and desolate.

I had been at home exactly eight hours when a telegram from Jerry
asked permission to come at once.

As gently as I could I broke the news to Father and Mother. He was
Helen's brother. They must have heard me mention him, I knew him well,
very well, indeed. In fact, the purpose of this visit was to ask them
for the hand of their daughter.