owly than before, discussed soberly enough certain problems of
Stuart's connected with the commercial side of market gardening. He
spoke precisely as he would have spoken to a man, with the possible
difference that he made his explanations of business conditions a trifle
fuller than he might have done to any man. But his confidence in his
friend's ability to grasp the situation was shown by the way in which,
ending his statement of the case, he asked her advice.

"Now, given just this crisis, what would you do, George?" he said.

She considered in silence for some paces. Then she asked a question or
two more, put with a clearness which showed that she understood
precisely the points to be taken into consideration. He answered
concisely, and she then, after a minute's further communion with
herself, suggested what seemed to her a feasible course.

Stuart demurred, thought it over, argued the thing for a little with
her, and came round to her point of view. He threw back his head with a
relieved laugh. "I admit it--it's a mighty good suggestion; it may be
the way out. Anyhow, it's well worth trying. George, you're a peach!
There isn't one girl in a hundred who would have listened with
intelligence enough to make her opinion worth a picayune."

"I'm not a girl, Jimps. I don't want to be a girl--at twenty-four. I
can't; I haven't time."

"That's a safe enough statement," replied James Stuart, looking down at
the dark head beside him under the March starlight, "as long as you
continue to act enough like a normal girl to run down the hills with me
after dark. Well, here we are, worse luck! I suppose you're not going
to ask me in?" There was a touch of appeal in the lightly spoken
question.

"Not to-night, Jimps; I'm sorry. Father Davy overdid to-day, in spite of
all my efforts, and I must see him to bed early and read him to sleep."

"After he's gone the literary light won't come down and smoke his
spices-of-Araby mixture by your fire, instead of his own, while you
entertain him, will he?"

Her low laugh rang out. "You ridiculous person, what a vivid imagination
you have! Every evening at about this time the literary light goes off
for a long tramp by himself, and often doesn't come back till all our
lights are out, except the one we leave burning for him. He is
absolutely absorbed in his work. We really see nothing at all of him
except at the table."

"Just the same, the time will come," predicted James Stuart. "So