hands clasping silken knees, and
brooding eyes on the fire. There was a dignity about her, too, in spite
of her childish pose and a drooping grace that was almost a woman's.

What she was waiting for was slow to come, but she did not seem
disturbed by that. The hands of the clock above her seemed to move with
the unbelievable quickness characteristic of clock hands when there is
no other activity in the room, and she observed them calmly. Soon they
pointed to the quarter hour, they passed it. She looked faintly worried
then. The telephone rang again; she pressed her hands over her ears and
shut her eyes tight, and did not answer. The stick on the fire burned
low and she did not replace it. It parted and fell from the andirons
with a dull noise that echoed loudly through the empty room. Judith
started and jumped up, her eyes hard and bright, her hands tightly
clenched.

She eyed the clock threateningly, as if it were personally responsible
for whatever disappointment she might be feeling, and she were daring it
not to strike. It struck half-past ten in spite of her. Judith's mouth
trembled childishly, and tears started to her eyes. They did not fall.
Footsteps sounded outside. They turned into the drive. Judith stood on
tiptoe and peeped at herself in the mantel mirror--her flushed cheeks,
tumbled hair, and sparkling eyes. The steps crossed the porch, and she
ran to the door and threw it open--the length of the chain, and no
wider. She did not unbar the chain. On the threshold, with a substantial
box of Belle Isle under his arm, stood Mr. Willard Nash.

Judith regarded Mr. Nash and his Belle Isle with disfavour.

"You can't come in," she said.

Mr. Nash, who had been stooping to flick some dust from his boots,
straightened guiltily. "Why?"

"It's too late."

"I've got to see you."

"You do see me." A white dress, a face almost as white, and big, dark
eyes were all he could see, but it seemed to be enough. He inserted a
square-toed boot cautiously in the opening of the door.

"I want to see you _about_ something."

"What?"

"A new comic song for the quartette. They won't let us do 'Amos Moss' at
the Lyceum concert. That part about the red shirt is vulgar. The new
one's close harmony. It will show off Murph's voice."

"It's too late now. Go home, Willard."

"But I brought you this."

"Go home and eat it," suggested Judith.

Willard turned scarlet, swung round, then changed his mind and inserted
his foot