like a girl. I'm getting into the habit of
doing everything so languidly, so effeminately, Jack, that I wonder
sometimes if there is any masculine vigor left in me. What can I do to
try? I can never run any more: it will be a long time before I can pull
my old stroke with an oar. I might shoot at a mark, and if you and Harry
will come I will hobble out and try to-morrow."

"Floyd," began Jack with some hesitation, "from Georgy's reluctance to
see you I have sometimes thought she was concerned in the matter of your
accident."

"Not in the least," I cried stoutly: "never believe that for a moment.
It was my own affair entirely, and to this day I can't quite decide that
I was not both clumsy and stupid not in some way to keep myself from
falling."

I was sitting alone that evening, toward the late sunset, when Georgy
came. Showers had fallen all the afternoon, but now the clouds had risen
from the west, and, although now and then a few drops fell, the east was
spanned by a rainbow and the turbid masses of cloud above took on colors
of crimson and purple. I heard the gate click, and turning I saw Georgy
Lenox coming in, attended by both Jack Holt and Harry Dart. Each held an
umbrella over her--Jack in earnest, and Harry in joking solicitude for
her bright summer ribbons. It was evident enough that they were all in
high spirits, and I seemed to hear the sparkling impertinences which
issued from her laughing lips as she looked from one to the other of the
boys with many a toss of her yellow curls and shrug of her round
shoulders. They left her at the door, which stood wide open, and I
called to her to come in. She entered, but waited a moment on the
threshold, growing a little pale as she looked at me. Then rallying,
"How do you do, Floyd?" she exclaimed. "You see that I have come at
last?"

"I am glad to see you," I returned. "But come nearer: I want to shake
hands with you."

She approached, and I clasped her hand, looking up into her face. She
had grown more womanly in these last seven months, and far more
beautiful; and, looking in her face, I at first forgot to speak.

"How queer you are!" said she, pouting, but laughing. "Why do you look
at me so?"

I do not know whether I spoke or not, but she bent and kissed me, and
thus answered my feverish longing, the gratification of which
overpowered me with a sudden intoxication like that of wine.

"I only did it because you are ill," said she, putting her hands to he