orebodings that we had reached our journey's end without my noticing
it.

"Well!" I exclaimed, and then added the brilliant observation, "We are
here, aren't we."

"We are," she said, dryly. "Didn't you know it?"

"Why, I had not realized. The walk has seemed so short."

"Yes, I'm sure it must. I think you have spoken exactly six words in the
last five minutes. Will you come in?"

"Oh no; no, thank you."

"Why not? Father is in and will be glad to see you."

"I--I must be getting on toward home. Supper will be ready."

She bit her lip. "Far be it from me to criticize your domestic
arrangements, Mr. Paine," she said, "but it does seem to me that your
housekeeper serves meals at odd hours. It is only a few minutes after
four, by my watch."

She had me at a disadvantage. I imagined I must have appeared
embarrassed. I know I felt that way.

"I did not realize . . . I thought it much later," I stammered.

"Then you will come in? Father will like to discuss the fishing with
you, I know. He has talked of little but his wonderful weakfish ever
since he caught it."

"No, thank you, Miss Colton. Really, I must not stop."

She took the parcel from my hands.

"Very well," she said, indifferently; "as you please. I thank you for
your kindness in walking down with me. Good afternoon, Mr. Paine."

She turned away. Here was the opportunity I had been waiting for, the
opportunity of breaking off our acquaintance. If I knew anything I knew
the tone of that "Good afternoon" meant that, for some reason or other,
she was offended, just as I had been certain I wished her to be. Here
was the opportunity, Heaven sent, to rid my life of its disturbing
influence. Just what I had prayed for had come to pass.

And so, to prove the sincerity of my prayers and the worth of my high
resolve, I--called her back.

"Miss Colton," I said.

She, apparently, did not hear me, so I called again.

"Miss Colton."

"Yes?"

"I seem somehow or other to have offended you." And even as I said it I
realized the completeness of the back-down, realized it and blushed. I
was ashamed of my weakness. Yet when she asked me to repeat my words I
did so.

"You spoke to me?" she said, coldly.

"I--I said I had not meant to offend you."

"Why should you imagine that I am offended, pray? You seem to think
other people must necessarily regard you as seriously as you do
yourself. I am not offended."

"But you are."

"Very well; then I am. We won