ther had spoken her thoughts.
The three, mother and daughter and handsome young man, sat for a while
together in the living room, and then Jane, who knew the heart of
youth, and did not fear it, said, "You children should go out on the
porch--it's a beautiful night; I'm going upstairs."

And now let us once more in our astral bodies watch them there in the
light of the veiled moon--for it is the last time that even we should
see them alone. She is sitting on a balustrade, and he is standing
beside her, and their hands are close together on the stones. "Yes,"
he is saying, "I shall be busy at the train to-morrow trying to catch
the governor for an interview on the railroad question, and may not
see you."

"I wish you would throw the governor into the deep blue sea," she
says, and he responds:--

"I wish I could." There is a silence, and then he risks it--and the
thing he has been trying to say comes out, "I wonder if you will do
something for me, Jeanette?"

"Oh, I don't know--don't ask me anything hard--not very hard, Neal!"

The last word was all he cared for, and by what sleight of hand he
slipped his fraternity pin from his vest into her hand, neither ever
knew.

"Will you?" he asks. "For me?"

She pins it at her throat, and smiles. Then she says, "Is this long
enough--do you want it back now?"

He shakes his head, and finally she asks, "When?" and then it comes
out:--

"Never."

And her face reddens, and she does not speak. Their hands, on the
wall, have met--they just touch, that is all, but they do not hasten
apart. A long, long time they are silent--an eternity of a minute;
and then she says, "We shall see in the morning."

And then another eternal minute rolls by, and the youth slips the rose
from her hair--quickly, and without disarranging a strand.

"Oh," she cries, "Neal!" and then adds, "Let me get you a pretty
one--that is faded."

But no, he will have that one, and she stands beside him and pins it
on his coat--stands close beside him, and where her elbows and her
arms touch him he is thrilled with delight. In the shadow of the great
porch they stand a moment, and her hand goes out to his.

"Well, Jeanette," he says, and still her hand does not shrink away,
"well, Jeanette--it will be lonesome when you go."

"Will it?" she asks.

"Yes--but I--I have been so happy to-night."

He presses her hand a little closer, and as she says, "I'm so glad,"
he says, "Good-by," and moves down the b