d toward him. Looking away toward the paddock that
lay brilliant in sunshine on the skirts of the apple orchard, she
asked, in low, slow tones, twisting her hands in her lap:

"Don't you think that perhaps, if B found out afterward--when she had
married A, you know--that she had cared for him so very, very much, he
might be a little sorry?"

"If he were a gentleman, he would regret it deeply."

"I mean--sorry on his own account; that--that he had thrown away all
that, you know?"

The professor looked meditative.

"I think," he pronounced, "that it is very possible he would. I can
well imagine it."

"He might never find anybody to love him like that again," she said,
gazing on the gleaming paddock.

"He probably would not," agreed the philosopher.

"And--and most people like being loved, don't they?"

"To crave for love is an almost universal instinct, Miss May."

"Yes, almost," she said, with a dreary little smile. "You see, he'll
get old and--and have no one to look after him."

"He will."

"And no home."

"Well, in a sense none," corrected the philosopher, smiling. "But
really, you'll frighten me. I'm a bachelor myself, you know, Miss May."

"Yes," she whispered just audibly.

"And all your terrors are before me."

"Well, unless----"

"Oh, we needn't have that 'unless,'" laughed the philosopher
cheerfully. "There's no 'unless' about it, Miss May."

The girl jumped to her feet; for an instant she looked at the
philosopher. She opened her lips as if to speak, and, at the thought
of what lay at her tongue's tip, her face grew red. But the
philosopher was gazing past her, and his eyes rested in calm
contemplation on the gleaming paddock.

"A beautiful thing, sunshine, to be sure," said he.

Her blush faded away into paleness; her lips closed. Without speaking
she turned and walked slowly away, her head drooping. The philosopher
heard the rustle of her skirt in the long grass of the orchard; he
watched her for a few moments.

"A pretty, graceful creature," said he, with a smile. Then he opened
his book, took his pencil in his hand, and slipped in a careful
forefinger to mark the fly leaf.

The sun had passed mid-heaven, and began to decline westward before he
finished the book. Then he stretched himself and looked at his watch.

"Good gracious, two o'clock! I shall be late for lunch!" and he
hurried to his feet.

He was very late for lunch.

"Everything's cold," wailed his hoste