d these words she sat looking up at him with
wide-open, childlike eyes, a hint of pathetic appeal in her voice.

Flint paused a moment, as one who counted the cost of his words. Then
he said slowly: "It shall be as you wish; but on your own head lie the
risks. When a man has once said, 'I love you,' the woman to whom he
says it sees it in his eyes and hears it in his voice forever after. I
tell you," he went on, setting down the faun hard on the mantel, "love
is like the spirit which the Arabian fisherman let out of the shell.
It can never be shut up again--never--never--never!"

Winifred stirred a little, but did not lift her eyes.

"You shall try this precious scheme of friendship," Flint continued
hotly. "It is not a new experiment. It is well worn, and so far in the
world's history it has not proved a great success; but try it if you
will, only you shall make me one return. I shall never ask you again
for your love. It is not a plaything to be teased for in such childish
fashion. You tell me you will not give it to me. Well and good. But if
ever--" here he paused and shut his eyes for an instant, as if upon
some inward vision,--"if ever you should come to feel differently, I
demand it as my right that you shall tell me so honestly. You know me
too well to think I could ever change."

"I accept the risk," Winifred answered steadily. "You shall never
regret this concession, and by-and-by, when we both grow old, you will
look back and see that such a friendship is the best thing that could
befall you and me."

The girl spoke with quick decision of manner. It was characteristic of
her not to question for a moment the wisdom of her decision, the
infallibility of her own judgment, or her power to regulate the life
and destiny of those around her.

Flint smiled, as one smiles at the eager illusions of a child. He was
going to speak further; but the ringing of the door-bell warned him
that the interview was at an end.

"So be it!" he said, coming over to the side of the fireplace where
Winifred stood,--for she too had risen. "Since it is not to be
good-bye, then, I will bid you good-night."

He took the hand which she extended, and raised its slender
finger-tips to his lips. "That is for friendship," he murmured; then
turning it, he laid a swift kiss upon the delicate pink palm,--"and
that is for love," he whispered, and was gone.

On his way out he passed Miss Standish, who had just come in from a
concert. She g