ards her. Maggie had begun
to stand for him as a kind of embodiment of a view of life which was
sane, wholesome, and curiously attractive; there was a largeness about
her, a strength, a sense of fresh air that was delightful. It was that
kind of thing, he thought, that had attracted him to her during this
past summer. The image of Amy, on the other hand, more than ever now
since those recent associations, stood for something quite
contrary--certainly for attractiveness, but of a feverish and vivid
kind, extraordinarily unlike the other. To express it in terms of
time, he thought of Maggie in the morning, and of Amy in the evening,
particularly after dinner. Maggie was cool and sunny; Amy suited
better the evening fever and artificial light.

And now Maggie had to be faced.

First he reflected that he had not breathed a hint, either to her or
his mother, as to what had passed. They both would believe that he had
dropped all this. There would then be no arguing, that at least was a
comfort. But there was a curious sense of isolation and division
between him and the girl.

Yet, after all, he asked himself indignantly, what affair was it of
hers? She was not his confessor; she was just a convent-bred girl who
couldn't understand. He would be aloof and polite. That was the
attitude. And he would manage his own affairs.

He drew a few brisk draughts of smoke from his pipe and stood up.
That was settled.

* * * * *

It was in this determined mood then that he stepped out on to the
platform at the close of this wintry day, and saw Maggie, radiant in
furs, waiting for him, with her back to the orange sunset.

These two did not kiss one another. It was thought better not. But he
took her hand with a pleasant sense of welcome and home-coming.

"Auntie's in the brougham," she said. "There's lots of room for the
luggage on the top.... Oh! Laurie, how jolly this is!"

It was a pleasant two-mile drive that they had. Laurie sat with his
back to the horses. His mother patted his knee once or twice under the
fur rug, and looked at him with benevolent pleasure. It seemed at
first a very delightful home-coming. Mrs. Baxter asked after Mr.
Morton, Laurie's coach, with proper deference.

But places have as strong a power of retaining associations as
persons, and even as they turned down into the hamlet Laurie was aware
that this was particularly true just now. He carefully did not glance
out at Mr.