or how rich he is in the winning. It says
also, perhaps, "This is the wedding garment. It is worn for you."

When Osmond entered, these things were in his mind because it was a part
of his bitter thought that he had no clothes to meet her in. For many
years he had seen no use for the conventional dress of gentlemen, and
grannie had never failed to like him in his clean blue blouse. So he
came in, as Rose thought at once, like a peasant of an Old World
country. All but the face. What peasant ever wore a mien like that: the
clarified look of conquered grief, the wistfulness of the dark eyes, the
majestic patience of one who, finding that the things of the world are
not for him, has put them softly by? There were new lines in the face,
Rose could well believe; in spite of those appealing softnesses of the
eyes, it was a face cut in bronze. She held out her hand, and he took it
briefly.

"I had to see you," she said, rushing upon the subject of her fears. "I
am going away."

They were seated now, and Osmond was looking at her steadily. "But I am
coming back," she smiled. "Please be glad to see me."

"I can't seem to talk to you," said Osmond abruptly, also smiling a
little, in his whimsical way. "You are such a fine lady."

She glanced down at her dress, and hated it.

"I don't know why I put this on, except, perhaps, I didn't want you to
despise me for what I am going to say."

"Despise you!"

She choked a little and dared it.

"You haven't been to the playhouse lately."

"No."

"Why?"

"Have you been there yourself?"

"No."

"Why?"

"Because I couldn't."

"Well, I couldn't, either."

"Why?" cried the girl passionately. "Why has everything got to change?
Why should you tell me you would be there always and then never come
again? Why?"

Osmond regarded her in what seemed a sad well-wishing.

"Youth can't last," he said. "That was youth. We are grown up now."

Tears gathered in her eyes. The finality of his tone seemed to be
consigning her to fruitless days without the joy of dreams.

"Well," he added, "it doesn't matter. You are going away."

"You said once I should take the key of the playhouse with me."

He smiled humorously, as at a child who must, if it is possible, be
allowed some pleasure in the game.

"Take it, playmate," he said.

The color ran over her face. She sparkled at him.

"Oh, now you've said it!" she entreated. "You've called me by my name.
Now we can go back."

Osmond