the boy
smiled at me.

"Good old Roger! You're a brick," he said. "Friendship, after all, is
the greatest thing in the world." He turned his head and walked to
the window and looked out, assuming an air of unconcern which I knew
hid some deep-seated emotion. I, too, was silent. It was a fine moment
for us both.

He turned into the room after awhile with an air of gayety.

"We're going to have a party, Roger."

"Ah, when?"

"Marcia's giving a dance tomorrow night, people from all over, and
I'll have a few of 'em here in the afternoon--for tea out at the
cabin. Sort of a picnic. Some of 'em are bringing rods to try the
early fishing. Rather jolly, eh? I'll tell Poole and Christopher--"

I confessed myself much pleased with this arrangement and thanked my
stars that Una had refused me. It was the day I had wanted her.
Indeed, since Jerry's promise, life at the Manor had suddenly taken a
different complexion. A new hope was born in me. Jerry would keep that
promise. I was sure of it.

I will come as rapidly as possible to the extraordinary happenings of
that Saturday afternoon, which as much as any other event in this
entire history, portrays the mutability of the feminine mind. I had
gone out to the cabin to see that everything was in order, and Jerry
was to follow later, while a few of the men fished up stream, Marcia
and some of her guests driving in motors to the upper gate, cutting
across to the cabin through the woods. Christopher had cleared the
cabin and he and Poole had brought the eatables and set a table. The
two days that had passed since Jerry had given me his promise had been
cheerful ones for the boy. I had not seen Miss Gore, but for aught I
knew Marcia Van Wyck might have been adoring Jerry again. I did not
care what her mood was. All would come right, for Jerry had given me a
promise and he would not break it. The arrangements within the cabin
having been completed, I went outside and wandered a short way down
the path toward the stream, sat on a rock and became at once engaged
in my favorite woodland game of counting birdcalls. Thrushes and
robins, warblers, sparrows, finches, all engaged in the employment
that Jerry had described as "hopping around a bit," or chirping,
calling, singing until the air was melodious with sound. The birdman's
surprise, a new note differing from the others, a loud clear gurgling
song, brought me to my feet and I went on down the path listening. It
was different from