her back to him, as did
Eugene.

"You have changed, I think, since last summer," he heard her say,
reflectively.

"For the worse, ma cherie?" Joe's expression might have been worth
seeing when Eugene said "ma cherie," for it was known in the Louden
household that Mr. Bantry had failed to pass his examination in the
French language.

"No," she answered. "But you have seen so much and accomplished so
much since then. You have become so polished and so--" She paused, and
then continued, "But perhaps I'd better not say it; you might be
offended."

"No. I want you to say it," he returned, confidently, and his
confidence was fully justified, for she said:

"Well, then, I mean that you have become so thoroughly a man of the
world. Now I've said it! You ARE offended--aren't you?"

"Not at all, not at all," replied Mr. Bantry, preventing by a masterful
effort his pleasure from showing in his face. "Though I suppose you
mean to imply that I'm rather wicked."

"Oh no," said Mamie, with profound admiration, "not exactly wicked."

"University life IS fast nowadays," Eugene admitted. "It's difficult
not to be drawn into it!"

"And I suppose you look down on poor little Canaan now, and everybody
in it!"

"Oh no," he laughed, indulgently. "Not at all, not at all! I find it
very amusing."

"All of it?"

"Not you," he answered, becoming very grave.

"Honestly--DON'T you?" Her young voice trembled a little.

"Honestly--indeed--truly--" Eugene leaned very close to her and the
words were barely audible.

"You KNOW I don't!"

"Then I'm--glad," she whispered, and Joe saw his step-brother touch her
hand, but she rose quickly. "There's the music," she cried, happily.
"It's a waltz, and it's YOURS!"

Joe heard her little high heels tapping gayly towards the window,
followed by the heavier tread of Eugene, but he did not watch them go.

He lay on his back, with the hand that had touched Mamie's scarf
pressed across his closed eyes.

The music of that waltz was of the old-fashioned swingingly sorrowful
sort, and it would be hard to say how long it was after that before the
boy could hear the air played without a recurrence of the bitterness of
that moment. The rhythmical pathos of the violins was in such accord
with a faint sound of weeping which he heard near him, presently, that
for a little while he believed this sound to be part of the music and
part of himself. Then it became more distinct, and he raised