I

Jane sat beside Flora on the little rosewood sofa in Mrs. Furness’s bedroom. They were listing the contents of the bureau drawers. That morning they had gone through the closets. Mrs. Furness’s wardrobe was heaped in four great piles on the big rosewood bed. Dresses that Flora wished to keep for herself. Dresses that her aunt Mrs. Carver might care to wear in Boston. A few darker, soberer dresses that Flora thought might be suitable for her mother’s sister in Galena. And a very few much older, shabbier ones that Flora was planning to send to the Salvation Army. It had been a very hard morning for Flora. It had been a very hard one for Jane. Jane could remember just how Mrs. Furness had looked in nearly every gown that they had examined. She could see her dancing at Flora’s début in the violet velvet. She knew just how the black lace ruff of the little silk shoulder cape had framed her white face, while Mr. Bert Lancaster was talking to Muriel in the dining-room at the coming-out tea.

Muriel and Mr. Bert Lancaster were still in the Canadian Rockies. Muriel had written at once to Flora. Jane had seen the letter. Muriel wasn’t much of a letter writer, but you could read between the inarticulate, straggling lines that she was really awfully sorry. Muriel wrote just the way she did when she was a little girl at Miss Milgrim’s. It made both Jane and Flora think of their school compositions to read her round childlike hand.

The western sun was slanting in the bedroom windows. Their task was nearly finished. Flora was keeping all the underclothes. And the jewellery, of course. She had given Jane a little gold pin, set with turquoises in the form of forget-me-nots. Jane had often seen Mrs. Furness wear it, nestling in a tulle bow on her bare shoulder.

The room was quite dismantled. The window curtains were down and the carpet was up and all the little ornaments were put away. Mr. Furness was going to close the house next week. He was going to take Flora around the world. They were going to be gone for a year. Mr. Furness said he might never open the brownstone house again.

“I’m awfully tired,” said Flora suddenly. She looked tired, and very white in the sable folds of her crisp new mourning.

“Go and lie down,” said Jane brightly. “We’ve almost finished. There’s just the desk.”

“Papa is going to do the desk, himself,” said Flora. “He told me not to touch it.”

“Then we’re through,” said Jane.

The sound of the doorbell rang through the silent house.

“That’s Stephen,” said Flora. “I forgot all about him. He said he would drop in on his way home from the bank for a cup of tea.”

“Never mind Stephen,” said Jane. “You go and rest.”

“Stephen’s been awfully good to us,” said Flora.

“He’d want you to rest,” said Jane. “I’ll go down and explain to him. I’ll give him tea.”

“I wish you would,” said Flora. She looked unspeakably weary. Jane kissed her pale cheek and turned toward the door. “Don’t stay in here alone,” she said, pausing on the threshold.

“I won’t,” said Flora. She followed Jane into the hall.

Jane ran lightly down the staircase. She looked a fright, she thought, after a day spent poking into shelves and boxes. Her hair was very mussy and, when she closed one eye, she could see a streak of soot on one side of her nose. She paused by the walnut hat-rack to remove it with her handkerchief. Then passed in through the drawing-room door.

Stephen Carver was standing at the open front window, looking out at the flowering lilacs. Their sweet, passionless perfume pervaded the room. The gold-and-green furniture was all in linen covers. The rugs were up and the crystal chandelier was swathed in a great canvas bag. It all looked very cool and clean and unlived-in. Stephen turned at the sound of her step.

“Hello, Jane,” he said. He looked awfully pleased.

“Flora’s too tired to come down,” said Jane. “We⁠—we’ve been working all day long.”

Stephen nodded gravely. He knew what they had been doing.

“Ring for tea,” said Jane. “Flora said I was to give it to you.”

Stephen pulled the beaded bell-rope by the white marble fireplace. Jane sat down on the linen-covered bergère.

“You look tired, too,” said Stephen sympathetically.

Stephen was nice, thought Jane. She had come to feel very near to Stephen in the last sad weeks. He had been very sweet with Flora.

“I am tired,” said Jane.

The butler brought in the tea. The big silver tea-set was down at the bank. The little china service on the old tin tray looked very strange in the Furnesses’ drawing-room.

“I’ll never see a china tea-set,” thought Jane suddenly, “without thinking of André’s mother.”

She made Stephen’s tea in silence. She was much too tired to talk. She didn’t have to talk to Stephen. She knew him awfully well.

Stephen didn’t seem to have much to say, himself. He sat across the swept and garnished hearth and drank his tea without uttering a word.

“I’m glad Flora’s going away,” said Jane presently. “It will be good for her.”

“You’ll be going away, yourself, soon,” said Stephen.

Jane’s face lit up at the thought. Her father was taking a three months’ holiday that summer. Such a thing hadn’t occurred since he had gone abroad with Jane’s mother eleven years before. They were going to make the grand tour of the West. They were going first to Yellowstone Park. Jane was thrilled over the plan.

“Yes,” she said simply. “It will be good for me. I’m awfully glad to go.”

“Are you, really?” said Stephen. He put his teacup down as he spoke.

“Of course,” said Jane. “I’ve never seen a mountain.”

There was a little pause.

“I hate to have you go,” said Stephen, breaking it.

Jane was a little surprised at just the way he said it. She looked over at him rather questioningly. Stephen was sitting, elbows on knees, his head bent to look at his clasped hands.

“Oh, you won’t be lonely,” said Jane lightly. “You know lots of people now. Chicago is fun in summer.”

“Lots of people won’t do,” said Stephen. He was still looking at his hands. Jane knew just how he felt. Very few people “did,” of course, when you came down to it. Stephen must miss his friends in Boston. Suddenly he looked up at her.

“No one will do⁠—but you⁠—Jane,” he said hesitatingly. “Surely, you know that.”

The note in his voice was suddenly very alarming. Jane felt a little frightened. Stephen stood up. He walked quickly over to the bergère and stood looking down at her.

“Jane,” he said, “you know how I feel about you.”

Jane was shrinking back into one corner of the great armchair, staring up into his suddenly ardent face.

“No⁠—no, I don’t,” she said defensively.

“I love you,” said Stephen. He said the three words very quickly, with a funny little gasp at the end. His face was flushed.

Jane’s hands flew up as if she could tangibly put the three words away from her.

“No, you don’t, Stephen!” she cried quickly. “No, you don’t!”

“Oh, yes, I do,” said Stephen.

Jane looked up at him very solemnly. Her hands dropped limply in her lap.

“I love you⁠—terribly,” said Stephen. “I’ve loved you from the night we first met, here in this house.”

“Oh, no!” said Jane again, piteously. “That⁠—that isn’t possible.”

“I’ve never loved anyone else,” said Stephen, “like this.”

“But you will!” cried Jane hopefully. “Oh, Stephen, you will!”

Stephen continued to look down at her, very queerly.

“Do you mean,” he said stiffly, at last⁠—“do you mean⁠—there’s no hope for me?”

Jane felt terribly overcome with a sense of helpless guilt. She⁠—she ought to have known this was coming. Clever girls did. Flora and Muriel always had.

“Do you mean,” said Stephen, a little hoarsely, “that you⁠—that you can’t care for me⁠—at all?”

Jane shook her head, very slowly. She felt dreadfully sorry for him.

“No⁠—I can’t,” she said simply. “Not that way.”

Stephen looked very much discouraged.

“I thought,” he said sadly, “I thought⁠—these last weeks⁠—”

Jane rose suddenly to her feet. She stepped right up to Stephen and took his hands in hers.

“Stephen,” she said, “you’ve been darling to Flora. And darling to me. I⁠—I’m terribly fond of you. But I don’t love you. I don’t love you at all.”

“How do you know?” asked Stephen, eagerly. He was holding her hands now, close against his breast. “How do you know⁠—if you’re terribly fond of me?”

“I know,” said Jane. She dropped her eyes as she felt them fill with tears. She could see the moonlit beach that minute. She could feel the shattering sense of André’s nearness.

“Jane⁠—” pleaded Stephen. “You can’t be sure.”

“I’m very sure,” said Jane. She withdrew her hands from his.

“I’ll never give you up,” said Stephen. Jane shuddered, faintly, at his ill-chosen words. She could feel André’s lips on hers in the dim-lit side vestibule. “You’re mine,” he’d said; “I’ll never give you up.”

“Don’t⁠—don’t talk like that,” said Jane sharply. She turned toward the door. “I’m going home now. You must let me go, Stephen. I⁠—I don’t want to hear you.”

He looked terribly sorry and just a little hurt, but Jane didn’t care. She couldn’t care for anyone now, in the sudden surge of memories that had overwhelmed her. André. André Duroy. She would never care like that for anyone again. She wasn’t even sure that she would care like that for André, now, if she could see him. But Jane knew. Jane knew all too well.

“I don’t love you, Stephen,” she said, with dignity, on the threshold. He just stared dumbly, despairingly, at her from the empty hearthstone. Jane turned and left the room.

II

“He’s crazy about you,” said Muriel lightly. “It’s ridiculous for you to say you haven’t noticed it. Isn’t he crazy about her, Isabel?”

Muriel was sitting on Jane’s window-seat, looking out into the lemon-coloured leaves of the October willow. Isabel was perched on Jane’s bed. Little John Ward was standing in a baby pen in the centre of the room. Jane was sitting on the floor beside him. She had only been back three weeks from the West and a walking John Ward was still a provocative novelty.

“You never can tell with men,” said Isabel warily.

“I can tell,” said Muriel, shaking her black curls very sagely. “Last night at the Saddle and Cycle he never took his eyes off her.”

“Eyes aren’t everything,” said Isabel. “How about it, Jane?”

Jane looked up from the baby. She met their eager glances very coolly.

“Muriel’s a bride,” she said calmly. “She’s not responsible for her views on sentiment.”

“Stephen’s a lover!” retorted Muriel. “He’s not responsible for his. He looked at you across the table, Jane, as if he’d like to eat you.”

“How cannibalistic of him!” smiled Jane, cheerfully. “Somehow that picture doesn’t lead me on.”

“You’re a perfect idiot,” said Muriel, “if you don’t accept him.” Again she glanced at the bedstead for support. “Isn’t she, Isabel?”

Isabel became suddenly practical.

“What’s wrong with him, Jane?” she asked earnestly. “He’s young”⁠—her voice faltered a moment, with a glance at Muriel, over that qualification. She went hurriedly on, “And good-looking and he has plenty of money and a very good family and he’s your best friend’s cousin. I’d say he was made to order, if you asked me.”

“Why don’t you fancy him, Jane? You know he’s in love with you,” said Muriel accusingly. “You ought to have seen her last night, Isabel. You wouldn’t have known our Jane. She just wiped her feet on him.”

“Who does Jane wipe her feet on?” questioned Mrs. Ward’s voice. Jane’s mother stood, smiling, on the threshold.

“Stephen Carver,” said Muriel promptly, ignoring Jane’s warning eyebrow.

Mrs. Ward looked very much pleased.

“She’s a very foolish girl if she does,” she said advancing into the room. She cast an apprehensive glance at the baby. “Isabel, are you sure that there isn’t a draught on that floor?” Isabel moved a trifle restlessly on the bedstead. She didn’t stoop to reply. “Stephen Carver,” went on Mrs. Ward, “is a very charming young fellow. If Jane is wiping her feet on him she may find out when it’s too late that he’s not the stuff of which doormats are made.”

“Oh⁠—I think he likes it,” said Muriel. “He does like it, doesn’t he, Jane?”

Jane couldn’t help smiling a trifle self-consciously. Stephen did like to have her notice him anyway at all. He had been terribly glad to see her when she came back from the West. And she had been⁠—not terribly, but really very glad to see him. He had given her a whirl at all the early autumn parties. Last night at the Saddle and Cycle Club⁠—well⁠—Jane knew very well that she shouldn’t have acted just the way she did, since she didn’t love Stephen at all and wanted, so terribly, to make it perfectly clear to him that she never could.

“You’d like it, wouldn’t you, Mrs. Ward?” asked Muriel impishly.

Mrs. Ward looked a trifle disconcerted. She exchanged with Isabel a slightly embarrassed glance. Jane was more amused than anything, to see Muriel beating her mother and Isabel at their own game. Muriel would like nothing better than to go out onto Pine Street that very afternoon and say with conviction, “Mrs. Ward is setting her cap for Stephen Carver.”

“Every mother,” said Mrs. Ward a trifle sententiously, “would like her daughter’s happiness.”

Isabel rose from the bed.

“I’ve got to go, Jane,” she said. “Hand me Jacky.”

Jane picked up her nephew over the railing of the pen. His little arms twined confidently around her neck. His fat little diapered figure felt very firm and solid in her arms. It would be fun to have a baby, all your own, thought Jane. It would be fun to have a home of your own like Isabel and Muriel. However, there was more to marriage, Jane reflected very sagely, than a home and a baby. And she didn’t love Stephen. She didn’t love him at all.

Isabel took Jacky.

“I’ll walk along with you, Isabel,” said Muriel. “Goodbye, Jane. Don’t come down.”

Mrs. Ward turned to Jane as soon as the other two girls were out of hearing. She still looked pleased, and a little excited.

“What’s this, Jane,” she said, “about Stephen Carver?”

“Just Muriel’s nonsense,” said Jane.

“Is he really in love with you?” said Mrs. Ward.

“Oh, Mamma!” protested Jane very lightly. “You know Muriel.”

Mrs. Ward was looking at her very attentively.

“Has he asked you to marry him?” she said.

Jane hesitated for an almost imperceptible instant.

“Not⁠—not this fall,” she said.

“Last winter?” said Mrs. Ward very quickly.

Jane hesitated no longer.

“Of course not, Mamma. I hardly knew him last winter.”

Mrs. Ward looked rather puzzled. Jane felt very triumphant and only a little untruthful. May was not winter.

“He’s a very dear boy,” said Mrs. Ward impressively. “I like Stephen Carver.”

Jane made no comment. She began to fold up the baby pen.

“Your father admires him, too,” said Mrs. Ward.

“How about Isabel?” asked Jane sweetly. “And Robin? And the baby?”

Mrs. Ward laughed in spite of herself.

“They do all like him,” she said.

Families were terrible, thought Jane. But her eyes were twinkling.

“So if I did, too,” she said brightly, “it would make it unanimous.”

“Do you?” said Mrs. Ward.

“Mamma,” said Jane, “you are really shameless.”

She walked out of the room with the baby pen. She was going to put it away in the back hall.

III

“Marion,” said Agnes confidently, “is surely going to get the European fellowship.”

“Why not you, Agnes?” asked Jane.

They were sitting side by side on the brown velvet sofa in Mr. Ward’s little library. Agnes was having tea with Jane. She was spending the Christmas holidays in Chicago.

“I haven’t a chance,” said Agnes. “Marion’s had wonderful marks these last two years.”

Jane thought of the little dark-eyed Freshman she had met that first night in Pembroke Hall and of her father’s sapient comment, “I bet she’ll amount to something some day.” Marion amounted to a great deal already.

“And I don’t want it,” said Agnes. “I don’t want to study any more. I only want to write. I’m going to live in New York next winter. I’m going to look for a job on a newspaper.”

Agnes seemed terribly capable and confident and self-sufficient. Jane couldn’t imagine how she would set about finding that job, but she knew that she would get it. Jane tried to think of herself, turning up alone in New York, looking for a living wage and a good boardinghouse. It wasn’t thinkable.

“What have you been doing, Jane?” said Agnes. “What are you going to do?”

Jane couldn’t think of any adequate answer to those incisive questions. She wasn’t going to do anything. She hadn’t done anything, in the Bryn Mawr idiom, since she had left Bryn Mawr.

“I don’t know,” she said slowly. “I⁠—I’ve just been home.” Then she added honestly, “I’ve liked it a lot.”

Agnes’s friendly, freckled face was just a little incredulous.

“You can’t like it, Jane,” she said. “Not really.”

“Oh, yes, I do,” said Jane. She felt terribly unworthy.

“You’re too good for a life like this,” said Agnes. “And much too clever.”

Jane didn’t deny the soft impeachment.

“You can be clever anywhere,” she said.

Agnes looked a little uncomprehending.

“You can think about people,” said Jane. “You can learn about life.”

“If you don’t look out, Jane,” said Agnes very seriously, “you’ll marry one of these days⁠—marry a cotillion partner⁠—and never do anything again as long as you live.”

“I’d like to marry,” said Jane honestly.

“So would I,” said Agnes with equal candour. “I expect to, some day. But not a cotillion partner.”

“There are all kinds of cotillion partners,” said Jane, defensively. The Bryn Mawr point of view seemed just a little restricted.

Agnes drank her tea for a moment in silence. Then silently stirred the sugar in the cup.

“Jane,” she said presently, her eyes on the teaspoon, “Jane⁠—have you ever heard from André?” Jane felt a sudden shock at the name.

“No, Agnes,” she said very gently. “I never have.”

There was a little pause.

“Agnes,” said Jane, a trifle tremulously, “have⁠—have you?”

“No,” said Agnes.

Silence fell on the room, once more.

“You’ll be twenty-one in May,” said Agnes. “I bet he writes.”

“He⁠—he’s probably forgotten all about me,” said Jane. “You know, Agnes, we were just children.”

“It was very clever of your mother,” said Agnes, “not to allow any letters.”

Jane felt a little stir of loyalty in her perplexed heart.

“It was probably very wise of her,” she said.

“Possibly,” said Agnes.

“I⁠—I’ll never see him again, I suppose,” said Jane. “He’ll always live in Paris.”

Agnes continued to stir her tea.

“It would be dreadful,” said Jane, “if I were still in love with him.”

“I suppose it might be,” said Agnes at last. “Four years is a long time.”

“He must be very different,” said Jane. “I’m very different myself.”

“Of course,” said Agnes meditatively, “you’ve both met a lot of people.”

Jane heard the doorbell ring. She almost hoped that this conversation would be interrupted. It was too disturbing.

“And done a lot of things,” she said cheerfully. “Think what André’s life must have been, Agnes. I can’t even imagine it.”

Minnie stood at the library door. Before she could speak, however, Jane heard Stephen’s cheerful tones in the hall.

“Hi! Jane! Where are you?”

“Here in the library,” called Jane. “Come in, Stephen.”

Stephen stood in the doorway, overcoat thrown open, hat in hand.

“I just stopped in,” he said, “to see if you’d go skating this evening.” Then he saw Agnes.

“Miss Johnson, Mr. Carver,” said Jane promptly. “Sit down and have some tea, Stephen. Agnes Johnson was my Bryn Mawr roommate.”

Stephen seated himself in a leather armchair. He looked very young and charming and debonair, with his blond hair just a little ruffled from his soft felt hat and his cheeks bright red from the December wind. Jane really felt quite proud of him. She looked over at Agnes with a mischievous smile. She was a little dismayed at the expression of Agnes’s funny, freckled face. “Cotillion partner!” was written all over it.

“I’ve just been telling Jane,” said Agnes, a trifle severely, “that she ought to be doing something with her life.”

Stephen looked extremely astonished.

“Why⁠—isn’t she?” he asked.

“Nothing important,” said Agnes.

“Must Jane do something important?” asked Stephen. Jane handed him his tea.

“She could,” said Agnes firmly, “if she would.”

“I never have liked,” said Stephen dreamily, “important women.”

Jane began to feel a trifle amused. She didn’t know that Stephen had it in him. Agnes didn’t reply. Jane knew that Agnes always felt above a cheap retort. Stephen was left a little up in the air with his last remark. It began to sound ruder than it was, in the silence.

“Agnes,” said Jane lightly, “is a serious-minded woman.”

“I can see that,” said Stephen. He tried to muster an admiring smile, but, under Agnes’s dispassionate eye, it didn’t quite come off.

“Life is real and life is earnest,” explained Jane sweetly, “and the grave is not its goal.”

Stephen grinned at her very appreciatively. He was grateful for her levity. But Agnes was quite disgusted. She rose abruptly.

“I must go,” she said.

The front door opened and closed.

“Don’t go, Agnes,” said Jane. “Here’s Papa. He’ll want to see you.”

Mr. Ward appeared in the library door. His hands were full of newspapers and illustrated weeklies.

“Why, Agnes!” he said. He shook hands warmly. He was very glad to see her. “How’s the busy little brain working?”

“One hundred percent,” grinned Agnes. “But we miss Jane.”

“I missed her myself,” said Mr. Ward heartily, “for two long years.” He walked across the room and put his papers down on the desk.

“What does Bryn Mawr think about Spain, Agnes?” he asked. “Are we going to have war?” Mr. Ward was very much interested in Cuba. He was always talking of intervention.

“War?” said Agnes vaguely. “What war?”

“Ever hear of ‘Cuba libre’?” questioned Mr. Ward with a smile.

“Oh, yes,” said Agnes. “But I can’t say I’ve thought much about it.”

“Did you read the President’s message to Congress?” Mr. Ward had read it, himself, to Jane.

Agnes shook her head.

“What’s the matter with Miss Thomas?” said Mr. Ward. “I thought you women’s rights girls would be getting up a battery!”

Agnes laughed.

“In the cloister,” she said, “our wars are of the spirit. But I must go.” Mr. Ward walked with her to the door. He came back into the library, chuckling.

“Agnes is a great kid,” he said. “Bright girl, Stephen. You ought to know her. Keep you jumping to get ahead of her.”

Stephen looked as if he wouldn’t care very much for that form of exercise.

“Will you come skating?” he said.

“Yes,” said Jane, “I’d love to.”

“Eight o’clock?” said Stephen.

“Yes,” said Jane.

“Good evening, sir,” said Stephen meticulously to Jane’s father.

“Good night,” said Mr. Ward. He was looking at Stephen with that air of faint amusement, with which he always looked at him. Stephen went out into the hall.

“That’s a nice boy, Jane,” said Mr. Ward. Jane nodded. Her father walked around the desk and put his arms around her. He twisted her about, so that he could look into her face.

“But don’t get too fond of him,” said Mr. Ward.

“I won’t,” said Jane, promptly.

Mr. Ward was looking down at her very tenderly.

“Don’t get too fond of anyone, kid,” he said, “just yet.”

IV

Jane was waiting with her skates in the hall, when Stephen rang the doorbell. She opened the door herself. He smiled down at her.

“Prompt lady!” he said. He tucked her skates under his arm.

Jane ran down the front steps. The December night felt very fresh and cold. Pine Street was buried in snow. The tall arc lamp on the corner threw a flickering light, pale lavender in colour, and strange gigantic shadows of the elm boughs on the immaculate scene. They walked along briskly, single file, in the path shovelled out of the drifts. The December stars were glittering overhead. The noises of the city were muffled by the snow fall. Jane could hear sleigh bells, dimly, in the distance. When they reached the corner the sound of the band at the Superior Street rink fell gaily on her ears. It was playing “There’ll Be a Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight.” The path was wider, now. Stephen fell into step beside her. Jane began softly to sing:

“When you hear dem bells go ding, ling, ling,
All join ’round and sweetly you must sing,
And when the verse am through, in the chorus all join in,
There’ll be a hot time in the old town tonight⁠—my baby⁠—”

Jane was skipping in time to the tune.

“Oh, Stephen,” she said, “it’s a marvellous night! I’m so glad you asked me!”

“I’m glad you’re glad,” said Stephen cheerfully. “I love to see you love things.”

“I do love them,” said Jane seriously. “Ever so many.”

“I know you do,” said Stephen. “That’s one of the nicest things about you.” Jane skipped a moment in silence. “What did Agnes Johnson mean,” said Stephen a little irrelevantly, “about your doing something with your life?”

“She thinks I should,” said Jane.

“Well,” said Stephen, “aren’t you?”

“Why, no,” said Jane. “Not really. I’m just letting it happen.”

“Isn’t it all right?” said Stephen. “Your life?”

“Oh, yes,” said Jane. “But of course I don’t feel really settled.”

“Why not?” asked Stephen a little uneasily.

“Well⁠—a girl doesn’t, you know, until⁠—” Jane didn’t quite want to finish that sentence. “I mean I can’t go on this way forever⁠—just living with Mamma and Papa⁠—I mean⁠—I probably won’t⁠—” Jane abandoned that sentence also.

“No,” said Stephen very gravely, “I suppose not.”

They walked a few minutes in silence.

“Do you know,” said Stephen confidentially, “I really hate college women?”

Jane twinkled up at him.

“I’m a college woman,” she said.

“You?” Stephen burst out laughing.

“I’m a fighting feminist,” said Jane.

“Yes, you are!” said Stephen.

“Really I am,” said Jane. “I just haven’t the courage of my convictions.”

“I like you cowardly,” said Stephen.

“It has its advantages,” said Jane. “She who thinks and runs away, lives to think another day. I shall probably do a great deal more thinking than Agnes, before our lives are over. Agnes acts.”

“She doesn’t act like you,” said Stephen. They had reached the rink now. It was circled by a high hedge of cut evergreens, bound closely together, their trunks thrust down in the snowdrifts.

“I don’t act at all,” said Jane. “I just drift.”

They turned in at the gate. The music of the band was loud in their ears. The rink was not crowded yet. Just a few isolated couples were swerving about in the lamplight. Jane dropped on the wooden bench. Stephen knelt to put on her skates. Jane leaned her head back against the evergreens. They smelled faintly of snow and very strongly of pine needles, like a Christmas tree. Winter was lovely, thought Jane.

She sprang up, as soon as her skates were on. She glided out on the rink, and began to skate slowly, with long rhythmic strides, in tune with the band. She was halfway round before Stephen caught up with her. He held out his hands. Jane crossed her wrists and took them. She could feel his strong, warm grasp through their woollen gloves. Stephen was a beautiful skater. They glided on in perfect unison. Skating was even more fun than dancing, thought Jane, because you did it out-of-doors. You did it under the stars, with Orion and Sirius and the Dipper shining over your head, and the frosty winter wind in your nostrils.

“I never knew a girl,” said Stephen, “that skated as well as you. You’d love the river skating, near Boston.”

Jane knew she would.

“I’d like to take you out,” said Stephen, “for a day of it, with just a picnic lunch by a bonfire.”

Jane knew she would like a picnic lunch by a bonfire.

“There are lots of things,” said Stephen, “that I’d like to do with you.”

“Aren’t some of them in Chicago?” laughed Jane.

“I can’t think of a place,” said Stephen, “where some of them wouldn’t be.”

“Let’s try a figure eight,” said Jane. “Let’s try one backward.”

They swerved and swooped for some minutes in silence. Stephen ended up facing her, still skating easily, her hands held in his. He looked happily down at her, never missing a stride, never losing a beat of the band.

“Why, look who’s here!” cried a laughing voice. It was Muriel, standing at the bench side with Mr. Bert Lancaster. Stephen had almost run into them. He didn’t look too pleased.

“Let’s go four abreast,” said Muriel. The glint in her eye made Jane remember the days when Muriel used to giggle. She extended a hand obediently to Mr. Bert Lancaster.

Mr. Bert Lancaster was a good skater too, but the party of four was not a great success. Muriel couldn’t quite keep up. Every now and then she lost a step and stumbled. Twice round the rink they halted. Stephen edged, perceptibly, away from Muriel. Mr. Lancaster extended his hands once more to Jane. But Jane really felt that she hadn’t come out that perfect December night to skate with Mr. Bert Lancaster. She glided easily away from him.

“Stephen?” she said. His hands met hers in a moment. Muriel’s eyes held again that giggling glint. But Jane didn’t care. She didn’t care at all. She struck out, easily, with Stephen. She felt very much cheered and very confidential.

“I don’t like Bert Lancaster,” she said. “I don’t like him at all. Don’t let him get me!”

“You bet I won’t,” said Stephen. Stephen was terribly nice. And always to be counted on. They skated on in silence. The rink was crowded, now. Muriel and Mr. Lancaster were soon lost. The band was playing “Just One Girl.” Jane thought really she could skate all night with Stephen.

“Are you cold?” he asked presently. Jane suddenly realized that she was. Her feet were like cakes of ice.

“What time is it?” she inquired. Stephen released one hand and looked at his watch.

“Not ten,” he said.

“We’d better go back,” said Jane. “The band stops at ten. I am a little chilly.”

They glided slowly up to the wooden bench. Stephen knelt at her feet once more. Side by side they mounted the wooden steps and turned into Pine Street.

“Are you hungry?” said Jane. “Would you like some crackers and cheese? Mamma said she’d leave some beer on ice.”

“I’m ravenous,” said Stephen, smiling.

They walked along in silence.

“Jane,” said Stephen presently, “did you really mean that about your life? That you didn’t feel settled?”

“Why, yes,” said Jane. “In a way I meant it.”

“You⁠—you’re not thinking of doing anything else are you?” asked Stephen anxiously. “Going away, I mean, or⁠—or anything?”

“What else could I do?” said Jane simply.

Stephen looked down at her in silence. His face was very eloquent.

“I couldn’t do anything,” said Jane promptly, answering her own question.

Stephen didn’t speak again until she handed him her door-key.

“Sooner or later you’ll do it, Jane,” he said, then, very soberly.

Mrs. Ward was waiting up in the library. The beer was on ice, she said. Did Stephen like Edam cheese? There was cake in the cakebox.

“You know where everything is, Jane,” she remarked tactfully. “I’m going upstairs, now. I have letters to write.”

Jane led the way to the pantry. There was the beer, two beaded bottles, and the crackers, and the cake, and a round, red, Edam cheese.

“Let’s take them in by the dining-room fire,” said Jane.

Stephen carried the tray, Jane lit two candles on the dining-room table. The fire had sunk to a rose-red glow. But the room was very warm. The candle flames were reflected in the polished walnut and in the two tall tumblers. The Edam cheese looked very bright and gay.

Jane sat down in her father’s chair and leaned her elbows on the table. She felt her cheeks burning, after the winter cold. Stephen’s were very red and his blue eyes were bright. He drew up a chair very near her.

“Not much beer,” said Jane. “I don’t like it.”

He poured her half a glass, then filled his own. Jane dug out a spoonful of cheese. Stephen drained his beer in silence. Jane crunched a cracker.

“You’re not so very ravenous,” said Jane at length, “after all.”

“No,” said Stephen, “I’m not. I came in under false pretences.”

Jane looked up at him quickly.

“I came, Jane,” said Stephen, “to⁠—to talk to you again.”

“To⁠—talk to me?” said Jane faintly.

“To talk to you about⁠—us,” said Stephen.

“I don’t think you’d better,” said Jane.

“Jane,” said Stephen, “I’m not getting over you⁠—I’m not getting over you at all. I⁠—I care more than ever.”

“Oh, Stephen,” said Jane pitifully, “don’t say that.”

“Do you want me to get over you?” asked Stephen.

Jane pondered a moment, in silence. Life would seem strangely empty without Stephen.

“N⁠—no,” she said honestly. “I⁠—I don’t think I do.”

“Well, then,” said Stephen eagerly, “don’t you think that you⁠—you’re beginning to care?”

“I don’t know,” said Jane.

“Jane,” said Stephen very persuasively, “you can’t go on like this forever. You said yourself you didn’t feel settled. You⁠—you’ll have to marry some time. Wouldn’t you⁠—couldn’t you⁠—?” He paused, his eyes on hers.

“Stephen,” said Jane very miserably, “I don’t know.”

“You would know,” cried Stephen earnestly, “if you’d just let me teach you.”

“Teach me what?” said Jane.

“Teach you what it’s like⁠—to love,” said Stephen simply.

“Teach me,” thought Jane. There was a moment of silence.

“Love isn’t taught,” said Jane finally.

Stephen’s eyes had never left hers.

“Jane,” he said solemnly, “you don’t know.”

Jane shook her head. She couldn’t explain. But she knew. Love was no hothouse flower, forced to reluctant bud. Love was a weed that flashed unexpectedly into bloom on the roadside. Love was not fanned to flame. Love was a leaping fire, sprung from a casual spark, a fire that wouldn’t be smothered, a fire that⁠—

“Stephen,” said Jane, “I’m sure I don’t love you. I’ll never marry you unless I do.”

“But you think,” said Stephen still eagerly, “you think perhaps you might⁠—”

“I don’t know,” said Jane.

Stephen stood up abruptly.

“I’ll ask you and ask you,” said Stephen, “until some day⁠—”

Jane rose and put out her hand.

“I wish I could love you,” said Jane. “I’d like to.”

“Just keep on feeling that way,” said Stephen hopefully. “You didn’t talk like this last May.”

“Good night,” said Jane.

“Good night,” said Stephen.

Jane stood quite quietly by the candlelit table until she heard the front door open and close. Then she blew out the candles. She turned out the hall light and tiptoed very silently upstairs in the darkness. Nevertheless, she heard her mother’s door open expectantly. Mrs. Ward’s eyes wandered critically over her.

“We had a grand time,” said Jane very firmly. “The ice was quite cut up, but Muriel and Bert were there.” She walked on to her bedroom. At the door she turned. She abandoned herself to fiction. “Stephen taught Muriel the figure eight. I’m quite getting to like Bert Lancaster.” She heard her mother’s door close softly. Jane turned up her light. She laughed a little excitedly, to herself. It was nice to be loved. It was nice to be loved by Stephen.