XI

Nancy was a little disconcerted by this sudden turn. The situation had become almost impersonal. "I'm sorry," she said. She wished that she could have thought of a better remark—a better one came in the night, when she was going over the whole affair—but he seemed grateful even for that.

"Thank you," he said. "But Elfrida will be so disappointed. You simply can't imagine how this will spoil all her plans. But perhaps you will let me try again some time?"

Harry was following his right hand with his left, an octave lower, with almost no success.

"No, I am afraid not," said Nancy as they stood in the doorway. She softened her words, however, by holding out her hand.

"Good-bye," he replied, gently taking it; and then, following the Continental custom, he stooped andkissed it, much to the amusement of two undergraduates who were at the time passing down Tutors' Lane.

ON the morning following the final lecture Tom woke early, and his mind flew to the miracle of the preceding night. He was now ablaze with Nancy! It was a dazzling business, but when had it happened? It had not been as though he had gazed too boldly into the sun and had fallen down, blinded by the light of it. It had, to date, been altogether painless. He had seen Nancy in various situations, some of them pleasant, some of them trying. He had liked the way she had met them; and then it dawned upon him that her behaviour was consistently good; and next he knew that it would always be so. This was a stupendous discovery, the more so since he was not aware of any such consistency in his own character. Had he not learned in elementary physics that unlike poles attract one another? He could even now picture a diagram in the book showing the hearty plus pole in happy affinity with the retiring minus pole, a figure which proved the thing beyond a doubt. Science, when made to serve as handmaiden to the arts, has its uses, after all, and Tom took comfort in its present service.

Still, Nancy wasn't "cut and dried"; it would be a grave injustice to imagine her so. She was consistentin an ever new and charming way; she never obtruded her consistency. One would almost certainly never be bored with her; and yet one could depend upon her through thick and thin. He thought of the way the crew on a ferry boat throw their ropes over the great piles as they make fast in the slip. Nancy was such a pile—but what an odious figure! He thought of her face as he had first seen it on the night of the Vernal, when, slightly flushed and smilingly expectant, she had peered into the costume closet. A couplet floated out of Freshman English into his mind—something about a countenance which had in it sweet records and promises as sweet. He jumped out of bed to verify it, and found:

"A countenance in which did meetSweet records, promises as sweet."

He read on:

"A creature not too bright or goodFor human nature's daily food,For transient sorrows, simple wiles,Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles."

There was one more verse, and the last two couplets covered everything.

"A perfect Woman, nobly plannedTo warm, to comfort, and command;And yet a Spirit still, and brightWith something of an angel-light."

He turned the book down, open at this point, and resolved to memorize those lines.

His youth and playtime had now left him for good. The time for half-hearted or three-quarters-hearted attempts to forge ahead were over. He had pledged his heart and shortly hoped to pledge his hand in the service of the loveliest young lady in the world, none less. At present he was only a young instructor; of promise, perhaps, but still unproved. The immediate goal in his academic career was an Assistant Professorship; and although, even under the most favourable circumstances, it would probably be a matter of at least three years before he got it, nevertheless he could at least make it plain that he was indubitably on the way to it, and that (giddy thought) he was even of the stuff that Full Professors are made on! And no time should be lost before this were shown. Dressing feverishly, he corrected some slightly overdue test papers; and when he appeared at breakfast his landlady's three other guests noted the spirit in his bearing and commented upon it when he left.

There was to be a meeting of the Freshman English Department in the afternoon, and Tom found himself looking eagerly forward to it. He had no idea of the business that was coming up, but he was going to be extremely keen-eyed and watchful about it, whatever it was. The little slump which he had allowed to creep into his work recently was over. He wondered if any of his colleagues had noticed it, and in particular he wondered if ProfessorDawson, Head of the Department, had noticed it.

Professor Dawson was Tom's beau ideal of all that a university instructor should be. Tom had had him when in college, had taken everything that he taught; and he looked back upon the hours spent at his feet as among the best of his whole life. To teach like that was to be doing something indeed; and it was the picture of himself giving formal lectures in the Dawsonian manner that had finally led him into teaching. That Tom should have imitated as best he could the Dawsonian manner and method was, therefore, inevitable, but it none the less exposed him to the smiles of the Department. A member of it, a Professor Furbush, found occasion to refer to the Johnsonian anecdote anent sprats talking like whales; and, Tom hearing of it, there was brought into being one of the enmities which add zest to collegiate existence. Professor Dawson was a young man to be so celebrated, being only some fifteen years older than Tom himself. He was, of course, a Full Professor—the only Full Professor in Freshman English.

Next in rank to him in the Department was Mr. Brainerd, a gentleman who was nearly as much Professor Dawson's senior as Dawson was Tom's. Mr. Brainerd was, however, only an Assistant Professor, and it was now understood by all that he would never be anything higher. Fifteen years ago when he produced his chef-d'œuvre on Smollett his hopes had run high. At that time his fate hung in the balance.He could no longer be regarded as one of the "younger men," and his status was to be determined once and for all. The crowning glory of a Full Professorship could only go to one who had made some significant contribution to his subject. WouldTobias Smollettbe that? Into it had gone all that Brainerd could give, and it had, after a brief and generally indifferent appearance in the reviews, dropped out of sight. Then it was recognized that good old Burt Brainerd would have to putter through life as best he could. Mr. Brainerd felt no particular bitterness about it, certainly no bitterness towards the College. He had been disappointed in his publisher. He should have gone to Beeson, Pancoast with it; instead of to Trull. Trull hadn't pushed it at all: they merely announced it with a string of books on very dull subjects. Then, too, they had used a cursed small type. He had protested against this and had been told that a larger type would have made it much more expensive, would probably have necessitated doing the work in two volumes. They had had the calm assurance to talk to him of expense when he had consented to waive his royalties on the first five hundred copies!—an exemption, by the way, which they had not yet succeeded in working off. Well, that had been his main chance, and he now watched the rise of younger men with equanimity. And it must be confessed that he got a certain amount of cold comfort from the remembrance that on three several occasionsgood things had come to him from out of the west, and that he need not have remained "assistant" had he not elected to do so.

Were it not for his wife, he might have become content. The library was a strong one, particularly in his field, and what more delightful end for a scholar than to browse at will in his period and write essays for the literary magazines? But Mrs. Brainerd chafed. Not having been a woman of means or of any particular position, she had been somewhat self-conscious in mixing with the great ones of the place. She had, at length, however, after a residence of nearly twenty years, decided that to live so was nothing; and she had boldly called upon Mrs. Robert Lee-Satterlee. She had found the great lady all charm and friendliness; but when, upon leaving, she had expressed the hope that Mrs. Robert Lee-Satterlee might be inclined to return her call, Mrs. Robert Lee-Satterlee had replied, "Thank you." "Is it 'Thank you, yes' or 'Thank you, no'?" the rash woman had persisted. To which Mrs. Robert Lee-Satterlee had bowed, "Well, since you insist, I'm afraid it will have to be 'Thank you, no.'" Mr. Brainerd had felt the snub perhaps more than his wife, although he was most convincing in reassuring her that upon trying again, say with some one of the Whitman family, there would be small danger of such a rebuff. Mrs. Brainerd, however, had not tried again and had, with what stoicism she could command, resigned herself to the path God had ordered for her feet. So Mr. Brainerd's end atWoodbridge was not a brilliant one, but he did not shrink or cry aloud, and it was generally recognized that dear old Burt Brainerd was a good sport.

The other Assistant Professor in Freshman English has already been mentioned—Jerome Furbush. He was a young man, a classmate of Henry Whitman, and rather intimate in consequence. He was, quite decidedly, a striking figure. Whereas the average member of the Faculty might have been taken for an ordinary business man in his working clothes, Furbush was obviously a man of temperament. Tall and lean, he had allowed his beard to grow into something of patriarchal proportions, or, more exactly, into one of those healthy spade-like growths which the French know so well how to develop. That it was a rich red only added to its distinction, and to his. He was noted for being a hard worker and a wit, but feeling about him was sharply divided. One could not be neutral; either one hailed him as a prophet and seer, or one hated him as an abandoned cynic, a vicious and arbitrary egoist whose presence in the community was a menace. There appeared to be evidence in support of either view. It was true that the Dean's office was frequently absorbed by problems of his making. He had a weakness, to illustrate, for calling his students liars and cheats upon, frequently, tenuous evidence; and the discussions that ensued were never amiable. On the other hand, a certain number of the most promising men in the class were invariably drawn to him and, taking up his battles, defended him againstall detractors. The Permanent Officers had to admit that he got "results," but they shook their heads. Jerome Furbush was notoriously a "case."

Phil Meyers, instructor, had been graduated from a small western college and had taken his Ph.D. at a large eastern university. He was what is known as a "monographist," a thesis-writer; and it had become apparent to all that he was not long for the Woodbridge world. Word had repeatedly come through the somewhat devious channels of information that he was "no good." His classes were doing shockingly bad work and they were articulate in their disapproval of him. The coming June would close his first appointment, and it had been tactfully broken to him that he need not expect another.

Such was the personnel of the meeting in Mr. Dawson's office.

"I have called you together today, gentlemen," said Mr. Dawson after the preliminary pleasantries, "to consider the advisability of changing our course next year. It has been brought to my attention that there has been some criticism of the course as it now stands. Although," he continued, gazing at the blotter before him, "I could have wished that this criticism might have been made first to me, rather than have reached me indirectly, I am grateful for it at any time and welcome this opportunity for discussing it."

The air had become electrified. Everyone understood that the criticism referred to had come from only one source, Furbush, and that Dawson was administeringto him a public rebuke. Dawson remained staring at his blotter when he finished, and there was complete silence for several seconds. "Well?" he asked, raising his eyes. "Don't hesitate, gentlemen. Although the course is largely of my making at present, there is no reason why it should remain so, and I'm sure no one will welcome an improvement more than I." Another pause. "Come, Jerry, won't you lead the discussion?"

Furbush, who seemed to be waiting to be thus addressed, rather than to presume to take the floor from his superior, Mr. Brainerd, smiled charmingly. "I should frankly wish," he said, "that the discussion be opened by one of you gentlemen, for I feel that my judgment in such a matter is possibly not of much value. I confess that I am not in as warm sympathy as any of you"—by singling out Meyers at this point he lent a quietly insulting tone to his remarks—"with the present course. Were it left to me, I should do away with Wordsworth, substituting, possibly, Swinburne. I have sometimes wondered if we weren't underestimating the potential strength of the Freshman's mind by feeding him on too much pap. By the same token I am inclined to think that I should drop Carlyle and Hawthorne for Matthew Arnold and, perhaps, Cardinal Newman." (Furbush was a High Churchman of a militant dye.) "What I should, of course, do would be to divide the present first term between Spenser and Milton, instead of giving it all to Shakespeare." This last was saiddirectly to Dawson. It had been Mr. Dawson's particular joy that he could give one whole term to Shakespeare.

Tom was sitting keen-eyed and alert, but it would obviously be madness worse confounded to risk a contribution to this discussion, which was for Titans only. But he was thrilled by the duel before him, even though the outcome was never in doubt, since a show of hands would give a unanimous vote to Dawson whatever the issue. Mr. Dawson, however, declined the gage of battle altogether. He apparently merely wished Furbush to make public confession of the iniquity that was in him; and after noting out loud the changes recommended, he abruptly closed the meeting.

"Well, Jerry, we shall think over what you have said, and a week from today we'd better get together again and act on it. At that time, too, I wish you people would come prepared with your questions for the final examination paper." He looked around pleasantly at the little group. "I guess that will be all today," he said.

Tom had been nothing but a spectator at that meeting; but after the next he emerged radiant. The discussion of the first one had taken only a few minutes. It happened that Mr. Furbush was not able to be present; and it was announced incidentally, that he had been transferred to Sophomore English. Of his proposed changes nothing had been said, although another change was made. It appeared that Mr. Dawson had beenteachingThe Winter's Talefor the past six years and that he wished the Department's permission to drop it forCymbeline. Mr. Dawson explained that he was getting a little stale onThe Winter's Tale, and the change was hurriedly made.

What an object lesson was this for the keen-eyed young instructor! On the one hand was the Scylla of Mr. Brainerd and on the other was the Charybdis of Mr. Furbush. Lucky was he who could sail safely past the two; and he was a wise young instructor who determined to follow in the Dawsonian wake.

The final examination paper was then discussed; and Tom, who had come fully prepared and was extremely wide-awake, had contributed the "spot" passage in Wordsworth in its entirety—the couplet,

"A countenance in which did meetSweet records, promises as sweet,"

was included—and he had, furthermore, lent a most constructive hand in the framing of the Carlyle-transcendental question—a performance which he retailed to Mrs. Norris at the earliest moment, and which made the Assistant Professorship and Nancy seem definitely within his grasp.

MRS. NORRIS was pleased with Tom's account of his success in the writing of the examination paper. Certain unsatisfactory rumours had come to her ears recently about his work. Henry Whitman, for example, had stated that Tom was loafing and that unless he picked up and showed improvement he might not receive a reappointment when his present term had expired. It is curious how everyone knows everyone else's business at Woodbridge. Each man has his grade stamped clearly upon him, for all, with the possible exception of the man himself, to see. A young man can raise this grade; and Mrs. Norris—who loved Tom almost as though he were her own—was hopeful for him.

"All he needs, Julian," she said to the Dean when she told him of Tom's triumph, "is a guiding hand. I can't do it, because I'm too old, but I know someone who can." She was "straightening out" the library at the time, and as she said this she gave a chair a shove with her knee, which sent it flying into the books on the wall.

"Mercy on us," cried the Dean, annoyed by this display of vigour, "who is it?"

"Nancy."

"Oh, pshaw, you're always trying to marry her off. You're the worst match-maker I know."

Mrs. Norris laughed quietly. "You wait and see," was all she said; but she had settled in her mind upon a picnic.

Mary, when approached upon the subject, had not been at all enthusiastic. "Why, it's much too early for a picnic," she had objected.

"It is not at all. Everything is three weeks early this year, and that makes it about the middle of May. We'll have a lovely moon, too. It will be grand." And she proceeded to invite the guests, Nancy and Tom, and Furbush, for it was true that he had been most attentive to Mary of late. Mrs. Norris at first refused to go, but Mary insisted.

"You will have to watch the fire, Gumgum, while we are off looking for sticks and things." And so she had gone, after all.

Mrs. Norris's ideas of a picnic were large, the heritage of a day that knew few tins and miraculous powders that bloom into omelettes. She scorned them and brought along a generous store of raw steak and bacon and potatoes. A picnic without a fire and roasting meat was too namby-pamby for words; and though she would not now undertake to cook the food herself, because of a certain eccentricity of the knee joints, and since her daughter, despite her domestic science, declined to do so, she had brought along Julia the cook. Nothing but the big limousine would do for such an undertaking, and, as it was, Furbush had to nurse the steak in his lap.Mrs. Norris would have reached the picnicking ground in a procession of buggies, but at that Mary protested so vigorously that she was forced to resign.

The picnic place was a pretty, slightly inaccessible rock overlooking a creek. Though actually not far from Woodbridge, as the road was overgrown and the turns sharp the motor had to proceed with a deliberation which made the trip justifiably difficult. The rock itself was about a hundred yards from the road; and since there was scarcely any path through the woods to it, there were made possible the pretty callings and hallooings, fallings-down and pickings-up, without which no picnic is quite perfect. Mrs. Norris, as a matter of fact, did more than her share of this. She had not gone more than thirty steps into the wood before she was completely lost; and by the time she had been safely brought to the rock her hat was well over on one side, her hair streaming down, and the torn fringe of her petticoat dragging along behind in the dirt. Julia and Horace, the chauffeur, however, had gone directly to the rock without the preliminary vagaries vouchsafed to their superiors, and by the time Mrs. Norris was finally captured they had succeeded in getting the supper well under way.

Upon her arrival Mrs. Norris announced her intention of roasting a potato.

"Gumgum, please sit down," begged her daughter. "You are only upsetting everything," and she laid an unfilial hand upon her mother's arm.

"I am going to roast a potato," Mrs. Norris cried, shaking herself free and seizing upon a pared potato. "Tommy, get me a stick."

"Isn't she awful," laughed Mary. "Don't you dare give her a stick, Tom." But Tom did dare, and Mrs. Norris, with her smiling benignity, stood waving the stick back and forth over the fire in time with the andante movement of her favourite Brahms sonata.

"Well, we might as well get ready to eat that old stuff," said Nancy to Furbush. "Don't you dread it?"

"I would not dread it, dear, so much, dreaded I not mother more," he replied, to Mary's intense gratification. But Tom, who heard the low-spoken words, thought them decidedly forced and disliked Furbush the more for them.

Furbush's presence was undoubtedly a drawback to Tom's pleasure. How could he be natural with a person whom he disliked as much as he did Furbush and who he knew disliked him? Besides, he did not feel like being sprightly and picnicky with Nancy beside him. Instead, he felt homesick, or at least that is the way it seemed to him. Still, how could it be genuine homesickness when the object of his yearning was beside him? Nevertheless, there had been in his thoughts recently the picture of a certain small colonial house in Tutors' Lane, a house now for rent or for sale. Possibly, however, the contrast of such a life—the house would be furnished with highboys and gate-leg tables and oval,woven mats—with his present one at Mrs. Ruddel's furnished him with a genuine case of homesickness, after all. How perfect would life be in such surroundings! He liked to think of breakfast: He and Nancy, alone, except, of course, for the pretty, efficient maid—at their mahogany breakfast table. Nancy, busy with the coffee things at one end and he at the other—no, at the side—tucking away his grapefruit and bacon and hot buttered muffins and jam in the last few minutes before he dashed off up the hill to his eight-thirty. Good heavens, what a life that would be! He saw Nancy with the morning light on her hair and her pleasant, lively face—the nose with only the faintest possible trace of powder—bending over his cup; and then he realized that he was gazing at her now in the same position, only with the sunset light in her hair, and with a white porcelain cup receiving the coffee out of a thermos bottle, instead of a china cup from a swelling-silver pot.

"Careful Tommy, you are dribbling it all over me."

"Oh, Nancy, I'm so sorry. I ask you, isn't that stupid. Please excuse me."

"A little lemon or a hot iron or soap and water will fix it, probably," said Furbush.

Tom looked over at Furbush. He hated his liquid tones, like honey dripping on a blue plush sofa. "How the hell do you get that way?" he wanted to ask—then he rounded out the sentence with certain phrases which had been current amongour heroes along all war fronts from Kamchatka to Trieste. Even a milder remark was happily averted, for at this point the potato which Mrs. Norris had been steadily roasting, burst into flame and had to be plunged into the fire; a grateful accident, for now she was willing to sit down on the camp stool brought for her and to confine herself to the slicing of the bread.

What passed until the meal was finished was of slight significance. It was a decidedly detached party, the two couples being brought together chiefly through Mrs. Norris; and when Nancy and Tom had finished a banana which they had divided in the jolly picnic way, Tom stood up. "Do you realize," he asked Nancy, "that this is a wishing carpet we've been sitting on? Let's take it down by the creek and see where it will take us."

"Oh, dear," said Mrs. Norris, not at all displeased. "And now where are you and Mary going?"

"We're going to look for crocuses in the garden of the Queen of the Fairies," replied Furbush. "They ought to be up now."

"Well, take along this flashlight: it's getting awfully bosky-wosky in there." And then Mrs. Norris was left alone with Julia, whom she entertained with an animated and brilliant account of Titania and Oberon.

"Where shall we go?" asked Tom when they were seated on the magic motor rug.

"Let's go to Libya!" said Nancy promptly.

"Libya! Well, I suppose we might as well go there as anywhere. You realize, of course, that we won't go until I put my foot on the carpet"—his left foot was straggling over the edge.

"Perhaps you'd better keep it there for a few minutes, then, until we are sure that we really want to go. As a matter of fact, I think it is rather nice right here in Woodbridge," and she smiled up at him.

Nancy had, of course, smiled upon a great many young men without precipitating a proposal of marriage, but then, the young men had probably not woven her image into their future hopes and fears as thoroughly as he had. Also the hour and the place lent their potency to her smile. The soft spring evening, happily extended by Daylight Saving, the noisy little creek running by their feet, and the staunch ally of all such projects, the great round moon, all combined to weave a spell, just as Mrs. Norris planned that they should.

Tom had come to the picnic prepared to speak his mind, not doubting that an opportunity would be given him. He had not memorized a speech, but was ready to trust to the inspiration of the moment. His cause was an honest one; he might expect the gift of tongues, but the starting gun had now been fired, the race was on, and he was not granted the gift of tongues. A little preparation might not have been amiss, after all.

"I agree with you about Woodbridge. In fact, I think had rather go on living here than anywhereelse in the world, provided one thing." He had plunged in without the gift of tongues.

It was not so dark but that Tom could see the colour come into her face. "Provided what, Tom?"

"Provided I can have you, Nancy. Provided you can love me as I love you." He had come nearer her, and although he had brought both feet upon the magic carpet, they remained stationary. "You mean more to me than anything I have ever known. I used to wonder how I could ever think more of anyone than I thought of Woodbridge and the Star and the different boys in college, but that was nothing compared to this." Nancy was tracing a series of geometrical patterns upon the magic carpet with a bit of stick. "I wish I could do something to show you how much I care now." Still Nancy said nothing. "And, oh, Nancy, what you could do for me! With you to help me, I think I could do anything. But I know I need you. Nancy, will you marry me?"

Nancy was hardly prepared for this. She had, since the social service fiasco, acknowledged to herself that she had grown in that short space very fond of Tom. She looked forward to seeing him, and when he was gone she went over with pleasure what he had said and how he had looked. She liked his drollery and his strength, she admired his poise and self-reliance; and she had the greatest respect for his teaching ability, of which she had received direct proof. Still, she was not at all sure that she wished to marry him. After all, she hadreally known him only something over a month, and it was not the Whitman way to hurry into anything—least of all into matrimony.

"You mustn't ask me that, Tom."

"Why not, Nancy?"

"Because I cannot accept; not now."

"You mean that perhaps you can later? For of course I shall never grow tired of asking you."

The moon had climbed a little and had turned a silvery yellow. It flooded the rock and the people moving about on it, but Nancy and Tom remained in shadow. "Tell me, Nancy," he said, leaning over and covering with his own the hand upon which she was resting, "tell me that I may ask you again, for, dear Nancy, I cannot lose you." She did not draw her hand away immediately and when she did so she did it gently.

"You're awfully good, Tom," she said and Tom's heart swelled at the softness of her tone. Then she climbed to her feet, and—Tom picking up the magic carpet, which had become soaked through with the dampness of the creek bank—they made their way back to the rock.

And so ended their first love scene. That Tom's behaviour will appear tepid, in these vigorous days, is to be feared. His own contemporaries, of both sexes, will almost certainly be the first to point out that had they been in his place nothing would have kept them from proceeding from the tame seizure of Nancy's hand to some bolder action. Tom, however, helping Nancy along over the rocksand sticks was happily oblivious of his unconventionality. The beauteous evening did, in very truth, seem calm and free to him, though the party on the rock was making a little too much noise to have the holy time quiet as a nun, breathless with adoration. His mind turned to the scrap of Wordsworth he had lately memorized, and though he was a trifle annoyed to find that he couldn't, even now, perhaps when he most wanted it, remember all, the phrase "comfort and command" stayed with him and did nicely for the whole.

TOM telephoned to Mrs. Norris the next day to make certain that he might see her. He felt that she was an ally in the matter of Nancy, and it was important to get her advice.

He found her knitting by the yellow lamp in the library. "Well, Tommy dear," she said, looking at him with a quizzical smile, "was the picnic a success?"

"Mrs. Norris, you are wonderful. When I think how much I owe to your generation. After all, I think a woman is loveliest at fifty."

"Oh, flatterer!"

"But you know you cannot get that finesavoir vivrebefore."

"Oh dear me, how much moresavoir vivreI'll have when I'm eighty. What an old charmer I'll be then! Will you come to see me when I'm eighty, Tommy?"

"What a question!"

"Well, I hope you won't take me off on any old wishing carpet and put me down in a damp, horrid place and give me tonsilitis."

"Who has tonsilitis?"

"Nancy, of course, and you gave it to her, you bad thing."

Tonsilitis! He remembered now the damp rug and also certain sniffles that had required, from time to time on the homeward trip, the administration of a diminutive handkerchief with a pretty "N" embroidered, he knew, in the corner. So that is the way he would look after her!

"What can I do about it?" It was true that Mrs. Norris was taking it very calmly.

"Do? Why, you can't do anything but wait until she gets over it. You might go and see her when she begins to pick up."

"I caught cold myself." He had at least been true to that extent.

"Are you doing anything for it? Remind me when you go, and I'll give you some Squim. It's something new, and it did wonders for Mary."

"Don't you think it might be nice for me to send Nancy some?" asked Tom, laughing. Tonsilitis was seldom fatal, after all; and what an excellent excuse to visit her it would be when she was getting better!

"Tommy, dear, haven't you something to tell me?"

"No, not really."

"Not anything?"

"Well, hardly anything." He was sitting near her, and now he leaned forward and whispered, "I asked her to be my wife, and she refused." It was not said, however, in the tone one would expect for such an unhappy message. Mrs. Norris looked at him curiously. "She said she couldn't answer menow, but as good as gave me permission to ask her again—and when a girl talks that way, isn't it as good as settled?"

It did look promising, certainly. But then, there was Henry. "What about Henry?" she asked. "How does he feel?"

"What has he to do with it?"

"Oh my, he has a lot to do with it. He's more than just a brother, you know. He's her father and mother."

"And aunt, maiden aunt, as well."

Mrs. Norris laughed. "Henry's to be reckoned with, though, just like Marshal Ney—or was it Cincinnatus? I never can remember."

"But, Mrs. Norris, what am I to do?"

"Why, you must just be very nice and thoughtful to Nancy and as decent as you can be to Henry, and pray the Good Lord will help you."

"Will you pray for me, too?" Tom had played too much baseball not to appreciate the value of organized cheering.

"Yes, I'll pray for you." And then Tom jumped up and planted a thoroughgoing kiss—which was designed for the cheek, but which, upon her turning quickly, was delivered, in a manner that even Leofwin would have applauded—upon her neck.

On the sixth day Nancy sat up for a while during Miss Albers' hour and a half off. There was an abutment at one end of her room which overlooked the Whitman garden and carried the eye ondown the hill until it rested on the factory in Whitmanville—the factory which made the garden possible for her. There was a letter in her lap from Tom. It had come with his roses and it asked her to go with him to the boat race. There was also a book in her lap, but she made no effort to read it; it was so much easier just to gaze out of the window and let her mind wander where it would.

Henry knocked and entered. "Well, this is very nice. Do you really feel a lot better?"

"Ever so much, thank you. I think probably I'll get up in a day or two."

"I suppose you'll want your tonsils out now, won't you?" The question of a tonsilectomy had been a moot one for years. Nancy had always been anxious to have them out, having been told that it was merely a case of "snip, snip, and a day on ice cream." Henry, who regarded tonsilectomy skeptically as a fad, and who knew, furthermore, that it was a major operation for adults and that old Mrs. Merton hadn't walked straight since she had had hers out, was strongly opposed. This had, in fact, been an exceedingly sore point with them, and the amount of unhappiness engendered by it was considerably in excess of that which would have resulted from an operation when it was first suggested.

"I'll have to wait, of course, until I get well over this. It isn't like a rheumatism, you know." Nancy had learned the jargon thoroughly.

Well, that subject was now disposed of, and Henry, with the directness of a trained economist,abruptly went into the main object of his call. There had been certain features about Nancy's delirium which had astonished and annoyed him, and he had come with the express purpose of discussing them should he find Nancy strong enough. He now decided that she was strong enough. "Do you realize that when your fever was high you talked at a great rate?" he asked.

"I vaguely remember mumbling and grumbling."

Henry did not relish his task, but he felt it to be his duty—and Henry had never been one to shirk his duty. "You talked a great deal about this Tom Reynolds," he said.

"Yes?" Nancy was aware that she coloured. She was aware also of a sudden sinking sensation, not dissimilar to the one that comes from a too rapid drop in an elevator. So Henry had come to her at the first possible moment to protest against "this Tom Reynolds." "He has had a bad recitation," she thought, "and now he is going to take it out on me," and then she called her brother a hard and inelegant name, as people will when angry with their dearest relatives. Had Nancy been of a satirical nature she might have made something of her brother's adoption of Freudian methods; but she was not, and she knew only direct-fire warfare.

"Nancy," Henry went on, leaning towards her, "surely you are not in love with that man?"

Had Tom been a head hunter with tin cans in his ears, Nancy would have loved him at that moment.

"Yes, I am," she said.

Henry stared at her. It was clear she meant what she said. Then he glanced at the letter and the book that lay in her lap, as people will notice small things at such times. He guessed in whose handwriting the letter was, and—the book wasSonnets from the Portuguese! She had even taken to sentimental rubbish!

"Oh Nancy, can't you see that he is not worthy of you? Who are his people? Where is he from? I wouldn't givethatfor his future here. He's lazy, and he's filled you up on a lot of poetry. Nancy, think well of it before it's too late." She was gazing out the window, hardly hearing him. She had confessed aloud, before Henry, that she loved Tom. Henry was going on. "If you won't think of yourself, perhaps you can think of Henry Third? What is to become of him if you go?"

Nancy turned to look at him. She felt giddy now, and she thought she was going to cry. It would not do, however, to make a scene, when up to this point she had acquitted herself so well. "You mean that I should give up my life to look after your son?"

"Please don't be melodramatic. We know one another so well it isn't necessary. I am not asking you to give up your life. I am asking you not to throw it away, and in the meantime you have certain definite obligations here. You are more than an aunt to Henry. Life here with him will be far better for you than being the wife of that uncertain boy."

She allowed it to pass, but it gave the final flick to her anger. "You are the kind of person, Henry, who is so monumentally selfish that you think everybody who dares to cross you in any way is himself monumentally selfish too. Now you come to me in a protective rôle to save me from 'this Tom Reynolds' with a mass of ill-natured slander—and lies—because if I go to him you will have to get a new housekeeper."

"Nancy—"

"Don't interrupt me, please. It would be the same, no matter who came. You would find some dreadful fault in anyone. You always have been jealous of every man that ever came here and if you had your way you would keep me here for life." Nancy paused, but her brother did not offer to speak. She had asked not to be interrupted, and he would be quite sure that she was through before he spoke again, but he could not conceal his anger. Nancy noticed it, and her own anger increased. "I don't think I'd mind it so much, if you didn't pretend that it was all for my good. That is nothing but rank hypocrisy. Just what have you ever done to make my life pleasant here? You are never interested in what I'm interested in, outside of Harry. This lecture business you just laughed and sneered at. I admit it was ridiculous, but you wouldn't lift your finger to make it less so. I admit, also, that I would appreciate a little attention once in a while, but it would never occur to you to give me any pleasure unless you had to, to get some for yourself.When you really want to give me a good time you sit down and talk to me about your miserable old Labour class and what a wonderful lecture you gave them. Well, Henry, that time is past, and I am going to have my own life from now on." And the tears which she had been fighting back were no longer to be denied.

Henry was entirely put out, and he awkwardly got up. Now was clearly not the time to renew the attack. Nothing that Nancy had said was of the slightest significance, except her lack of interest in his work. There, indeed, was a sorry confession of inability to forget herself in the greatest interest of her nearest relation. Poor wilful girl! Well, he had done his duty. No one could charge him with unbrotherliness.

Nancy had also got up. "Please go away," she sobbed; and Henry, without further word, did so.

Nancy crawled back into bed and had her cry out. What a brute he was—and what a god was Tom! What a miserable snob Henry was about family—and then for him to say that Tom had no future! Had Tom been a member of his wretched old Grave, he would have had a very different view of it. That was the cause of nine-tenths of his dislike, anyway. Tom was in the rival club and Henry never could see any good in anyone connected with it. What a miserable, juvenile business! Had not Tom frankly confessed his need of help? Henry had never in any way indicated that she could be of service to him, except to order his meals and keep him comfortable.But Tom had thrown himself upon her. He "needed" her—that had been his word. With her to help him he felt that he could do anything. What a career for a girl! That would be living indeed.

She thought of his unanswered letter and climbed out of bed at once. "Dear Tom," she wrote, and again the tears came into her eyes, "Thank you so much for the lovely flowers. They are by my bed and I can enjoy them all day long. It is awfully nice of you to ask me to the Boat Race and I accept with pleasure. I don't think there will be any question about my being able to make it. In two weeks I should be perfectly well again.

"It will be lovely to see you and I can do so at any time now.

"As ever,"Nancy."

The final draft of the letter was composed only after three preliminary ones. Nancy found it extremely difficult to get just the right tone. She couldn't put too much warmth into it, and yet it mustn't be too cold. So she sat at her desk, copying and recopying, and only succeeded in finishing it when Miss Albers returned.

"I've done it at last," she announced proudly, her cheeks aflame. Miss Albers, fortunately one of the few surviving members of the Good Nurse family, saw the situation immediately.

"Why, I see you have," she said. "Isn't thatfine! Now I think you are entitled to a nice nap." And when Tom arrived, post-haste upon receipt of Nancy's note, he was met at the front door with the news of her relapse.

WHEN Tom reached the Whitman house on the day of the race, he found it full. He had seen Nancy only once since her illness; and as her room had then been filled with people, his call was not remarkable. He had not failed to notice, nevertheless, that the colour came into her face as he entered the room; and there had been other auspicious signs which had had an exciting effect upon his pulse. This call had been made only two days before the race, and it was then clear that Nancy could not go with him. A Philadelphia cousin had, however, announced her arrival—a particular friend of hers being in the Woodbridge boat—and would Tom mind taking her? Uncle Bob Whitman had wonderful seats, being an Overseer, but he wasn't going to be able to use them, and—of course Tom would be only too happy to take her.

Nancy, pale and lovely, was serving tea, but she found time to thank him again for his goodness about the Philadelphia cousin, and then she took him over to be presented. On the way across the room they passed Henry. Tom, who stared at him, missed the tell-tale blush on Nancy's cheeks. Instead, he only saw Henry shift his eyes calmlyfrom Nancy to him and bow coldly. Tom bowed as coldly in his turn, and then Nancy left him with the Philadelphia cousin.

Lily Griffin, the Philadelphia cousin, gazed at him steadily from under the floppy expanse of her black hat. She was sitting on a low cane covered bench before the fireplace, and her legs, which were encased in light grey silk stockings and which terminated in slippers of the same colour, her legs, let it be relentlessly repeated, were the most conspicuous things in the room. Over her shoulders were the thin strings of an undergarment that Tom thought was generally concealed. Still, one couldn't be at all sure about such things from one day to the next.

"Would you mind taking my cigarette?" she asked, handing him the stub.

"So you know Platt Raeburn," he began amiably when he had returned from his pretty task.

"Yes."

"He's an awfully nice boy. I know him quite well." Platt was in the Star; and Lily, who knew a great deal about such things, immediately suspected that Tom was also. How else would a professor know a crew star "quite well"? Her interest in Tom rose. He had, as a matter of fact, attractive eyes; and that cerise-coloured knitted tie with a pearl stickpin might indicate much.

"Platt is a nice boy, isn't he?" she continued with a shade more enthusiasm. "We went on the most wonderful party this Easter. He wasn't in training then, you know, and I have never seen any one funnierthan he was. We were at the Greysons' in Ardmore, and Platt thought he was insulted by the butler when he took Platt's cigarette off a table and threw it in the fire. It was burning the table, but old Platt didn't know that, and he knocked the man down."

"It must have been funny," said Tom, who had heard the story before.

"Oh, it was a scream. I thought I'd die laughing. It was really awfully bad of him, though, don't you think?"

"Oh, I don't know," said Tom boldly. "I don't think it was so very bad. You've got to expect that sort of thing nowadays."

"Mercy, I didn't think you'd say that. Aren't you a professor here, or something?"

"Yes, something."

"Well, but I always thought——"

"What?" with a smile.

"Oh, nothing. Say, just between you and I, don't you think this is rather slow?" and she gave him a look that showed he was making good.

The hospitality they were accepting was, of course, his own Nancy's, and to be strictly honourable he should have defended everything, but with certain definite reservations in his mind he replied, "Deadly."

"That dreadful old creature over there actually eyed me when I smoked that last cig." The dreadful old creature was Mrs. Conover, who found it difficult to reconstruct herself to the present century."I should think it would be awfully stupid living here. Now, isn't it really?"

"No, it isn't half bad."

"Oh, I can see you're a highbrow, like all the rest of them. Personally, I couldn't stand it. I'm too independent, I guess. What a sweet dog." Clarence was before her, arrayed in the Woodbridge colours. "I love dogs. I've the sweetest little Boston bull bitch at home. She won a silver flask for me last year." She was examining Clarence with the eye of a practised dogwoman. "Do you know anything about Airedales?" Tom didn't. "I suspect his tail is wrong," she said. "Now run along, sweetie," she called to Clarence; "momma can't have a baby with wrong tail." Clarence received this incredulously, but a complication was averted by the arrival of Nancy. "We were just criticizing your dog, my dear. Why don't you have his tail fixed?"

"Why, what's the matter with it?" asked Nancy. She hated the thought of anything having happened to Clarence.

"Why, it's too long. You should have two inches at least cut off." The picture of Clarence going around with his tail done up in a bandage was a delightful one, and Nancy laughed.

Lily appealed to Tom. "Isn't she heartless?" But before Tom could answer the slightly embarrassing question, the cruel one announced that they had better be on their way, as the race started at five and it was then half-past four. So they hustledinto the Whitman motor and drove to Center, where the new observation train was already filling.

The race with Hartley was always one of the great spring events, but the new observation train made it more of an event than ever. People gloated over it as though they had never seen a train before, much to the amusement of Lily, whose attendance at New London had been frequent. Many paused admiringly at the engine and, as they passed on up the line of a dozen cars, loudly proclaimed their admiration of the entire arrangement. "They are just like prairie schooners," said one young man, to Lily's huge delight, for she had never before seen so much provincialism all at once. The platform was thick with people rushing to find their cars at the last minute. All was hurry and excitement and colour and laughter. The orange of Woodbridge and the olive of Hartley were everywhere. Each person boldly displayed his colours, whether with flowers or feathers, and it was clear that earth had few greater pleasures than this. Then the engine tooted and rang its bell, and with a convulsive wrench they were off, amid the cheers of everyone.

Tom and his Lily were seated between the Hartley cheering section and the Woodbridge cheering section, in the very choice seats which Mr. Whitman naturally commanded and Tom, although he thought boat racing a much overrated sport and resented its being preferred to baseball, felt a distinct thrill as they passed out upon the river bank and up tothe starting point. Only the cold unseasonable wind which swept down the course, riffling the water and chilling every one to the bone, marred the day.

They arrived at the starting point, and the occupants of the new cars wrapped what little they had around them. Quite obviously, the race could not be rowed until the wind died. There was nothing to do but just sit and wait.

The Hartley cheering section immediately climbed down upon the bank, with the exception of one young man who was left with his head lolling over the side of the car next to Tom. Friendly remonstrance had been futile. He had refused to move and had elected to slumber. "I think he's sweet," said Lily, gazing over at him. "Tell me, do you have much trouble getting liquor here?"

"No," said Tom. Already the spell of the day was wearing off.

"I've learned, to my sorrow that you can't be too careful. Such a time as I had last month! I went out to a luncheon party—May Stephens—you know her? Well, just before luncheon I was astonished to see cocktails appear. I didn't think May had any stock, but there she was just the same, jiggling the shaker up and down. Well, at the first sip I thought something was funny, but there was nothing to do about it; and then May gave me a dividend, and although it nearly killed me, I managed to get it down, and then when we were all through she asked us how we liked it. Well, I told her I thought it was a little funny, and then she announcedwhat I knew all along; that she had made it herself. 'I made it out of spirits of nitre,' she said. 'Did you boil off the ether?' someone asked, and she said she hadn't! Well, we hadn't got hardly started at lunch when one of the girls passed right straight out and then we all began feeling trembly and queer, and then the next thing I knew I was at home in bed, and I wasn't up and about for a week. Wasn't that awful?"

Tom's enthusiasm was ebbing fast. What a prodigious bore this race was going to be! The wind was blowing up his legs, and his light spring overcoat was far from ample. The seats were too close together and were of a granite hardness; but he and Lily were wedged into the back and could not escape without treading upon the toes of half of Woodbridge's notables. So he sat still and tried to smile brightly at the conclusion of her story.

"Do you know?" Lily continued, "I think you have a lovely smile."

"Goody," replied Tom, and smiled again, this time rather archly.

Lily was examining him between half closed lids. "And I think you have nice eyes, too—particularly the lashes. They are so long and silky."

"Well, it's a great secret, of course," replied Tom, "and you mustn't tell even your mother"—Lily giggled—"but I think you have the prettiest way with you I have ever seen."

"Oh, dear me, you are funny. Now you must keep me warm."

The car, it has been pointed out, was full of Woodbridge notables, and any warming of the young lady would not have been looked upon with favour. Nor would Tom have cared to warm her had they been quite alone at the North Pole. What an ordeal this was getting to be, and how lucky was Nancy, comfortably seated before the fire! How good would that particular fire be, and what a soft and fragrant place to ask a certain question! What a contrast Nancy made to this miserable girl beside him! Nancy at the time happened to be repairing certain ravages that the tea had made upon her nephew's best blue suit, but the scheme of Tom's thoughts was not spoiled.

"Bad man, you're not showing me any kind of a time."

Tom was exasperated. A group in front of them had built a fire. "How would you like to go down there?" he asked. "Can you climb down over the side here?"

"'Course I can."

Tom climbed over the railing, dropped to the ground, and, turning his ankle, cried "Ouch!" loudly enough to waken the young Hartley man whose head was lolling over the adjacent railing. The youth looked up and beheld the lovely Lily poised, apparently preparing to fly into his arms. He reared himself up. "Come, lovely girl," he cried, "I love you." And then as she swooped by, he made a grab at her and tore her dress.

"You bad boy," she cried, with little discretion, "you tore my dress."

"You bad boy," repeated the young Hartley man, "yuhtoradress, yuhtoradress."

Tom had managed to hurry her away, although his ankle hurt him considerably, but not until all the notables had seen the performance. What a mortifying affair. No doubt many supposed that he was the one who had torn the dress.

Fortunately, Lily met a friend at the fire, and Tom was free for the time being. Would the wind never die down? The flag on the coach's launch was not quite so active. There was a rumour that they would start at six-thirty. Only half an hour more. Well, he could stand that. Lily seemed to be having a time with her new young man, and he limped over to a neighbouring fire where there were fewer Lilies and more heat. There he met a classmate of whom he was particularly fond; and before he knew it the starter's launch had put out into the river, and the parties around the fires were scampering back aboard the train. With considerable difficulty he followed Lily up over the side, for his foot was now swollen and painful. Finally, however, they were seated again, buoyed up with the thought of the race's being at last under way—when the starter's boat retired from the scene, and word arrived that the race would not be rowed until seven.

Tom could not cover his disappointment.

"I don't think you are very polite!" said Lily.

"Sorry," replied Tom, his ankle throbbing.

"In fact I think you're horrid."

"Good!" said Tom. Lily looked her rage and half turned her back on him. Well, that was something to be thankful for, at any rate.

They sat there in ever-increasing gloom. Some of the Lilies gamboled back to shiver over the fires, but even they were beginning to droop. Tom's Lily would have joined them—her new friend was not a wet smack—but Tom, with his throbbing ankle, did not offer to go, and she was too proud to suggest it. So they sat and waited.

The race was eventually rowed. At the starter's gun the train gave another convulsive jerk, which sent Tom's injured foot flying against the side of the car, and the crowd fanned into life its jaded enthusiasm. Out in the gathering dusk the two crews inched their way along. It was not quite clear which was which, the blades both showing black, and though Lily was certain she had located Platt and cheered lustily for his boat, subsequent evidence indicated that he was in the other. The two cheering sections woke to frenzy, and the notables' car was swept with confusion. Lily was beside herself and kept jumping to her feet with an appealing cry of "Oh Platt!" Tom looked over at the Hartley car at one point and saw that his friend had apparently had fresh access to his source of refreshment, for he was now blissfully asleep, cheek on the railing.

At the two-mile stake—with a final mile to go—theboats were even, but both sides were jubilant, for from each section it clearly showed that the home crew was ahead. Then the train shot behind a heavily timbered point, and when the view of the river was again free, the Woodbridge shell was half a length behind and obviously beaten. A pang of disappointment shot through Tom. Oh, well, it was a fitting climax to the day. There they were, slipping back and back. They were splashing badly, and one of the Woodbridge men was obviously not pulling his weight. Then the Hartley boat flashed over the finish amid the tooting of countless automobiles along the banks, a winner by a length and a quarter.

The Hartley people had given way to a transport of joy, while their coxswain crawled along his shell throwing water over the chests and faces of his men. The two boats floated idly about, their crews bowed forward, gasping in agony for strength. To the men in the Hartley boat came the faint sound of their grateful supporters. They had won—and what was an enlarged heart or, possibly, a damaged kidney, to such glory? The half hysterical screams of their Lilies were sweet compensation. As for the Woodbridge crew, well, they would have to swallow their dose as best they could—and wait for next year.

The young Hartley man next to Tom woke up. "'S the race over?" he asked.

"Yes, it's over," shouted Tom, for no one else heard him.

"Thank God," he shouted hoarsely, and went back to sleep—a sentiment which cheered Tom so much that Lily, on the homeward trip, decided he wasn't quite such a dumb-bunny, after all.

SCARCELY a day went by now without Tom's tracing his steps to the Norris house. He seldom bothered any more with the formality of the door: going around to the terrace side, he walked into the drawing-room unannounced. If no one was at home, he sat down with a magazine or book in the library or drummed at the piano. Then, possibly, he would go before anyone arrived; but the house which was so friendly to him and so full of Nancy, was far dearer to him than her own, for Henry's hostility was too marked to make his visits there other than difficult.

So it was that he came unexpectedly upon Mrs. Norris, Mary, and Nancy when he walked into the library on the day following the race; and then he regretted his free and easy entrance. For Mary was in tears and was receiving the comfort of her mother and friend. Tom backed hurriedly out, muttering an inarticulate apology and cursing himself for an awkward fool. Mary saw him, however, and with a sob brushed past him in the hall and went upstairs. Her mother who swept after her like a large and stately galleon in her black silk dress, was more troubled than he had ever seen her.Still, as she passed, she told him not to mind. And then he was alone with Nancy.

"What on earth is the matter?" he asked. Nancy, too, was thoroughly upset.

"Just look at that," she said, and pointed to an article in a New York evening paper. "Woodbridge Professor Drowns," ran the headlines. "Overtaken by Cramps After Eating Cherries and Milk." It appeared that Professor Furbush had defied the popular fear of the fatal combination and, in order to make his defiance complete, had promptly gone in swimming after eating it. The tragedy had occurred at the country house of relatives; and though a number of people were present, they took his cries for help as a joke until it was too late. The account went on to explain that it was more sad even than it might at first appear, for it was generally supposed that the dead man had been engaged to marry Miss Mary Norris, daughter of the Acting President of Woodbridge.

"Why, isn't that dreadful," said Tom. It is always a little hard to know what should be said in such circumstances. If the one who has just died is close to us, we don't think about what to say at all, but if it is only an acquaintance and we are merely a little thrilled by his going, it is difficult; for decency requires a solemn look and a shocked word. So Tom did what he could to be decent; and Nancy, who was staring with half averted face out upon the garden, made no reply. She, of course, knew all the secrets of Mary's heart and must be sharingher sorrow. Accordingly, any words from him, other than sympathetic ones for Mary's loss, would be untimely. Perhaps, even, she would insist upon remaining in sisterly spinsterhood! "It's awfully tough, isn't it," Tom added.

"Yes," said Nancy, somewhat faintly, from the curtains. Nancy seemed very much upset. Tom knew that Furbush had been a frequent visitor at her house, and probably she had grown fond of him. He was not at all aware, however, that Furbush's affair with Mary had progressed so far. He could not picture Furbush marrying Mary—or anyone else, for that matter—and he doubted whether Furbush would have married her. Still, it appeared that Mary had cared for him, and now her little romance was over.

"It's awfully hard on Mary, isn't it?"

"Yes."

Furbush was gone. Who would take his place? His place, an Assistant Professorship—there was now a vacancy! A flood of excitement swept through him. But how foolish to expect that it would fall to him. He had taught but one year, and he was only twenty-five. People still spoke of Harry Spear's having been given his Assistant Professorship at the end of three years as a record-breaking performance. He knew perfectly well, furthermore, that he had not made a startling success of it; not the kind of success that makes a man jump from a Captaincy to a Brigadiership. Still, he thought he stood quite as well as the other young instructorsin the department; and his "outside connections" were considerably better. After all, a man's career in college counted for something. And so, although he knew that the thing was impossible and that what they would do would be to go outside for an older man, he luxuriated for a moment in the picture of the Dean congratulating him on his success. An Assistant Professorship and Nancy! The two were linked in his mind as the sum-total of desire; and since he could think of Nancy without thinking of the Assistant Professorship, but could not think of the Professorship without thinking of Nancy, it is to be supposed that Nancy came first.

And there she was now, over by the window, painfully aware of the garden and fidgeting ever so little with the curtain. Perhaps this might not be such a bad time to repeat his question, after all. Had she not of her own free will come to the Norris house, at which she knew that he was almost a daily visitor? There was in that something to give him heart. As if he hadn't enough evidence without it!

"You will admit, though, Nancy, that it was an awfully stupid thing for him to eat the cherries and milk, won't you? Everyone knows that it can't be done." Tom moved over nearer to her, but she did not answer him. Instead, she fixed her eyes steadily on the bulging root of an elm in the garden. She must concentrate everything on that to keep from being an utter fool. But what an hour it had been! First the dreadful news about Furbush and that thing in the paper, and then Tom's unexpectedentrance. How wonderful he looked as he came into the room; he had been so self-possessed, and she should have been such a ninny in his place!

Tom took a step nearer. "Nancy," he said very tenderly.

The root was waving now; itwouldbecome indistinct. How gentle he was, and how different from Henry! "Nancy!" he repeated. Then the root became altogether blurred and meaningless, and she felt him take her in his arms and kiss her. "Darling Nancy," he was saying; and, somehow, to her great relief, she found an apparently adequate reply.

It was decided that a long engagement was altogether unnecessary, a decision which was without repeal, in view of the absence of parental supervision. Why waste the perfectly good summer? Why indeed? And so the wedding was set for a few days after Commencement.

"That will give me just about enough time to get ready," said Nancy, "and I really think you must get a new cutaway."

Then at last Commencement was over. The electricians bore away for another year the last of the class numeral signs which had hung from their respective Headquarters. The Headquarters themselves had been swept and cleaned and restored to their owners, and one by one the dwellers, in Tutors' Lane prepared to board up their houses for the summer and depart for the mountains or for the shore.

The wedding alone kept most of them in Woodbridge. Few there were that had not some pleasant memory of Nancy, and the sacrifice of a day or two of vacation was counted as little. Furbush's dramatic end had held the centre of the Woodbridge stage, but it was now forced into the background by the question: Was Tom good enough for Nancy? It was generally agreed that he was getting the best of it, but not many thought that she was altogether throwing herself away upon him. Nancy might have married anyone, it was pointed out, and having had so much responsibility, she could have graced the board of a much older man. Instead, she had chosen a young instructor—a pleasant enough boy, perhaps but still unproved. Well, Nancy would make the most of him, there was no question of that, and of course he was a great friend of the Norrises and it was known that Mrs. Robert Lee-Satterlee herself approved of the match. So they would hope for the best, and Nancy was a dear girl.

Tom was in perfect accord with the last sentiment, and it will perhaps be charitable to draw a veil over his behaviour at this time. Such names as "Mrs. Mouse" and "Boofly Woofly" are all very well when whispered teasingly into the delighted ear of one's intended, but they hardly stand the light of unromantic day. They have even been known to set up opposing currents of emotion in breasts not so nicely attuned, and to inspire such expressions as "Fish!" or even "Blat!" It may wellbe a considerate office, therefore, not to submit our lovers to the graceless manners of the unsympathetic, but to let them enjoy their artless passages unmolested.

One of these, alone, might be risked. Nancy had confidingly told him that she had all the faith in the world in his future, and he heard her gratefully. "Why, the way you talked to those men at the mill shows clearly enough what you can do," she said.

Tom coloured slightly, but let the moment pass without explanation. When he had first done so it was with the mental reservation that he would laughingly explain it some day, and he would, too, but it wasn't yet just the right time. So he stooped and kissed her affectionately; and then, as he was hatless at the time, she was reminded of something she had long wanted to tell him.

"If you don't look out, Tom, you will be perfectly bald in five years."

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