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T was Sunday afternoon and Claude had gone down to the mill house, as Enid and her mother had returned from Michigan the day before. Mrs. Wheeler, propped back in a rocking chair, was reading, and Mr. Wheeler, in his shirt sleeves, his Sunday collar unbuttoned, was sitting at his walnut secretary, amusing himself with columns of figures. Presently he rose and yawned, stretching his arms above his head.

“Claude thinks he wants to begin building right away, up on the quarter next the timber claim. I’ve been figuring on the lumber. Building materials are cheap just now, so I suppose I’d better let him go ahead.”

Mrs. Wheeler looked up absently from the page. “Why, I suppose so.”

Her husband sat down astride a chair, and leaning his arms on the back of it, looked at her. “What do you think of this match, anyway? I don’t know as I’ve heard you say.”

“Enid is a good, Christian girl” Mrs. Wheeler began resolutely, but her sentence hung in the air like a question.

He moved impatiently. “Yes, I know. But what does a husky boy like Claude want to pick out a girl like that for? Why, Evangeline, she’ll be the old woman over again!”

Apparently these misgivings were not new to Mrs. Wheeler, for she put out her hand to stop him and whispered in solemn agitation, “Don’t say anything! Don’t breathe!”

“Oh, I won’t interfere! I never do. I’d rather have her