were still on his face; not a beat of his wings or a
squirm of his body had she missed.

"Well just say how glad I am she is at home again and that her father
is getting on so well, and tell her I will be up and around in a day
or two, and that I am not a bit worse off for going to the station
yesterday."

"Anything else?"

"No,--unless you can think of something."

"And if I do shall I add it?"

"Yes."

"Oh,--then I know exactly what to do,--it will be something like this:
'Please, Ruth, take care of your precious self, and don't be worried
about me or anything else, and remember that every minute I am away from
you is misery, for I love you to distraction and--'"

"Oh, Miss Felicia!"

"No--none of your protests, sir!" she laughed. "That is just what I
am going to tell her. And now don't you dare to move till Peter comes
back," and with a toss of her aristocratic head the dear lady left the
room, closing the door behind her.

And so our poor butterfly was left flat against the wall--all his
flights ended. No more roaming over honeysuckles, drinking in the honey
of Ruth's talk; no more soaring up into the blue, the sunshine of hope
dazzling his wings. It made no difference what Miss Felicia might say
to Ruth. It was what she had said to HIM which made him realize the
absurdity of all his hopes. Everything that he had longed for, worked
for, dreamed about, was over now--the long walks in the garden, her dear
hand in his, even the song of the choir boys, and the burst of joyous
music as they passed out of the church door only to enter their own for
life. All this was gone--never to return--never had existed, in fact,
except in his own wild imagination. And once more the disheartened boy
turned his tired pain-racked face toward the bare wall.

Miss Felicia tripped downstairs with an untroubled air, extended two
fingers to Mrs. Hicks, and without more ado passed out into the morning
air. No thought of the torment she had inflicted affected the dear
woman. What were pins made for except to curb the ambitious wings of
flighty young men who were soaring higher than was good for them. She
would let him know that Ruth was a prize not to be too easily won,
especially by penniless young gentlemen, however brave and heroic they
might be.

Hardly had she crossed the dreary village street encumbered with piles
of half-melted snow and mud, than she espied Peter picking his way
toward her, his silk hat brushed to a turn,