h in love as she. It was all
very well for Margaret and Monica to lay down laws for behavior,
Margaret who did not know whether she loved or not, Monica who
disapproved of anything more directly emotional than a Gregorian chant.
Yet they had not theorized to-night, nor had they propounded one rule of
behavior; it was she who was rushing to meet their postulates and
observations, arming herself with weapons of offense before the attack
had begun. Yet why had neither Monica nor Margaret, nor even her mother,
come to say good night to her? They did not understand about love, not
one of them, not one of them.

"Pauline?"

It was her mother's voice outside her door, who, coming in, seemed
perfectly herself.

"Not undressed yet? What's the matter, darling Pauline? You look quite
worried, sitting there in your chair."

"I'm not worried, Mother. Really, darling, I'm not worried. I thought
you were cross with me."

Now she was crying and being petted.

"I don't know why I'm crying. Oh, I'm so foolish! Why am I crying? Are
you cross with me?"

"Pauline, what is the matter? Have you had a quarrel with Guy?"

"Good gracious, no! What makes you ask that? We had an exquisite walk,
and the sunset was wonderful, oh, so wonderful! And we picked
ragged-robins--great bunches of them. Only I forgot to bring them home.
How stupid of me! Monica and Margaret aren't angry with me, are they?
They were so cold at dinner. Why were they? Mother, I do love you so.
You do understand me, don't you? You do sympathize with love? Mother, I
do love you so."

When Pauline was in bed her mother fetched Margaret and Monica, who both
came and kissed her good night and asked what could have given her the
idea that they were angry with her.

"You foolish little thing, go to sleep," said Monica.

"You mustn't let your being in love with Guy spoil the Rectory," said
Margaret. "Because, you know, the Rectory is so much, much better than
anything else in the world."

Her mother and sisters left her, going gently from the room as if she
were already asleep.

Pauline read for a while from Guy's green volume of Blake; then taking
from under her pillow the crystal ring, she put it on her third finger
and blew out the light.

Was he thinking of her at this moment? He must be, and how near they
brought him to her, these nights of thoughts, for then she seemed to be
floating out of her window to meet him half-way upon the May air. How
she loved him; a