He was an old grouch in her opinion. She cared little for him. She wrote no letters to him, nor did he write to her. But he corresponded regularly with his father.
Mary was brilliant, though she gave so little time to study. She absorbed knowledge from watching the people about her. She loved crowds, parties, anything gay or festive. She adored boys and much of her time was spent roaming about the woods with them. She liked to be worshipped. She was handsome, slim, graceful, and her eyes were magnificent. Boys couldn't resist her. She laughed at their puppy-love antics. She couldn't take any of them seriously. She wanted a man.
She met her ideal when she was fourteen years old. His name was Whitman Manners. He was a salesman for a farm implement company. He was tall, with jet black hair and clear-cut features. Add to this an engaging smile, a charming manner of speaking, a ready wit, and there was nothing to be-wondered at that Mary succumbed to his charms. What she didn't know about him was that his whole life had been lived drifting from one woman to another, that he lacked the gift of continuance. He soon tired of every girl after she had become his sweetheart. Worse than that he was friendly with so many men of ill-repute that more than once he had escaped the clutches of the law only by a hair's breadth. As soon as he beheld Mary's slim form he desired her. She was tall for her age and could easily have passed for sixteen. That night he walked with her down one of the lonesome roads of Galvey.
His arm crept about her waist. "Mary," he said, "you are the loveliest thing I have ever beheld."
Then he kissed her. It was unlike any kiss she had ever known. No boy had ever kissed her like that. It left her breathless. She felt like crying. Again he kissed her. It was delicious, Sobbing, she clung to him. Gently he stroked her hair.
"I love you, Mary," he whispered. "Will you run away with me? We can be married in some nearby town. We must not tell your folks because you are so young they'd object to our wedding. Will you go with me, little sweetheart?"
"Of course I'll go," she murmured.
Mary was only fourteen and it is doubtful if she knew what
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