iles away. But there was something pathetic
about her position--and when Sydney made it more and more a custom to
talk to her, to make friendly advances, I thought it only the big
generosity of his heart pouring out to succor another such shy soul as
mine.

Once or twice it was not until evening that we could steal "off bounds,"
and then we would make straight for the little store, as if we knew
that, if we did not hurry, it would be closed for the night. And we
would have only a few hurried words, but laughing, with the girl--and
she would look up at Sydney with a light in those big eyes of hers that
I had never seen before in any woman's. She left her counter, once, and
walked all the way home with us; and I saw, in the blue of the gloaming,
that her hand was tightly clasped in Sydney's, and that he whispered
things to her under his breath, as soon as I was gone a little way ahead
of them, and that they both laughed--and she looked up at him as a dumb
animal to its master. She came as far as the school gate; and after I
had gotten within, they stood for a moment together--and I thought I
could hear the sound of kissing. It was only then that I began to be
troubled.

Sydney, who was a lieutenant in the cadet battalion, had more privileges
than I. He could leave the premises when he pleased. He never had to
sign the big book in the hall when leaving and arriving back. He needed
never to give account of what he did "off bounds." It was an easy matter
for him--and there were many times, now, that he went off alone. No one
knew why he used to take that little country road that led up the hill
towards a stupid old country store. No one, that is, but me.

At first I did not think much of the girl's side of it. I was bitterly
disappointed that some one else had come between my friend and me. I was
jealous of all the time he spent with her, of the hours of reading and
walking and jesting that once were mine--and of which the lure of her
had robbed me.

But once, when we were at the store, and I stood aside from them,
watching the humped back of her old father, bent over his card table,
and saw the feeble shaking of his hand, I began to comprehend what it
might mean to him if anything should happen. Not that I knew what might
happen. I was still very young--but I felt the chill foreboding of
tragedy lurking somewhere in the background of it all. The dingy little
shop, with its flyspecked glass cases and its dusty rows of un