o had been drinking, even though Wickersham had
trouble with his tongue. And while she waited, puzzled and frowning,
the man gave up an attempt at his usual nicety of phrase and blurted
out all that which had been many days hidden behind his impassivity.

"We haven't yet set a certain date for our marriage, Barbara," his
voice was strained. "Don't you think it is high time we did?"

The girl colored. It was, at least, very unexpected.

"Why, no, we haven't," she admitted. "But we can if you wish it. Have
you thought of a day you'd prefer?"

"I have," he stated. "Would the first of May be too early for you?"

Often, afterward, she wondered at her humility of that night, for
whatever the quick thought might have been which made her reach out one
hand to touch the doorframe beside her, her words were merely mild.

"It is, rather. But I think I can manage it, if it will please you."

Wickersham had come to his feet, but he would not turn so that she
might see his face. He spoke with eyes averted.

"It would," he answered with an effort, "and--and in the interim I am
going to be very sure, now, that no thoughtlessness of yours will be
derogatory, either to my profound respect for you or your own respect
for yourself."

The small hand closed then until it was clutching whitely the woodwork
beneath it. She understood at last how much Wickersham had seen; she
was never to understand entirely her mood of that moment. For had she
waited she would have left him with finger ringless. Instead she
wheeled without a word and climbed, white-lipped, upstairs.

Miriam Burrell loomed in one window of her bedroom when she entered--a
different Miriam than the one who had once sat in just such an
attitude, gazing into the north. The older girl's gladness of heart
throbbed in her voice.

"I don't want to leave it, Bobs," she sighed. "I love every brawling
rapid and sulky, ragged old peak. Did you ever see a more perfect
night?"

Through the gloom the younger girl's answer lashed back, reckless of
what hurt she might do.

"I hate it!" she gasped vehemently. "I hate it--hate it! And I must
ask you, please--I want to go to bed."

There is a poise which comes only with hard-bought knowledge of one's
self. It was Miss Sarah's; Miriam had acquired it, too. Without a
hint of resentment in her manner she rose and withdrew. But Barbara
did not go to bed. She took that vacated seat at the window. And long
after her