what I wrote."

"You don't want me to tell at all?"

"Never, as long as you live."

"How about her?"

"Gladys?"

"Yes, confound her!"

"She won't tell. She won't dare to."

Wollaston was silent for a moment, then he whispered again. "Well,"
he said, "I want to do what you want me to and what is honorable. Of
course, we are both young, and I haven't any money except what father
gives me, but I am willing to quit school to-morrow and go to work.
You needn't think I mean to back out and show the white feather. I am
not that kind. We have got into this, and I am ready and willing to
do all I can."

"I meant what I wrote," whispered Maria again. "I never want you to
tell, and--"

"And what?"

"I wish you would go and sit somewhere else, and not speak to me
again. I hate the very sight of you."

"All right," said the boy. There was a slight echo of rancor in his
own voice, still it was patient, with the patience of a man with a
woman and her unreason. All his temper of the night before had
disappeared. He was quite honest in saying that he wished to do what
was right and honorable. He was really much more of a man than he had
been the day before. He was conscious of not loving Maria--his
budding boy-love for her had been shocked out of life. He was even
repelled by her, but he had a strong sense of his duty towards her,
and he was full of pity for her. He saw how pale and nervous and
frightened she was. He got up to change his seat, but before he went,
he leaned over her and whispered again: "You need not be a mite
afraid, Maria. All I want is what will please you and what is right.
I will never tell, unless you ask me to. You need not worry. You had
better put it all out of your mind."

Maria nodded. She felt very dizzy. She was glad when Wollaston not
only left his seat, but the car, going into the smoker. She heard the
door slam after him with a sense of relief. She felt a great relief
at his assurance that he would keep their secret. Wollaston Lee was a
boy whose promises had weight. She looked out of the window and a
little of her old-time peace seemed to descend upon her. She saw how
lovely the landscape was in the waning light. She saw the new moon
with a great star attendant, and reflected that it was over her right
shoulder. After all, youth is hard to down, and hope finds a rich
soil in it. Then, too, a temporization to one who is young means
eternity. If Wollaston did not tell, and Gladys did not