became so irksome to him that
he arranged to stay in town with Mr. Bradley, who kept house with a
maiden sister in their little home just next to the store.

It was from this same sister, who disliked Arthur, but had taken to
Checkers, as every one did, that Pert at last learned the reason of
Checkers coming to Clarksville.

Mr. Bradley had told his sister the bare facts as he had learned them
from Arthur, and these she had enlarged upon in relating them to Pert,
embellishing the story to suit her fancy.

The discovery of this attempt upon Arthur's part to shield himself, and
belittle his friend, checked the growing pity and tenderness Pert felt
for him because of his illness, and killed every possible vestige of
regard she might have had remaining for him. Checkers, on the
contrary, grew in favor. He had discovered that it was but a pleasant
and picturesque walk from town to the Barlow place, and evening after
evening found him seated under the trees with the girls, banjo in hand,
singing for them, and telling them interesting tales of his many and
varied experiences.

Sadie's father returned, and she went back to town to be with him. But
Checkers still took his evening walk out the country road, except when
Pert came in to spend the night with her cousin, as she often did.

Under such conditions friendships quickly ripen, and Checkers, at
least, soon found himself upon the borderland of a warmer sentiment;
but his manner continued one of purely good-natured interest and
friendship, for, in spite of what Sadie had told him, he still felt
that Pert belonged to Arthur.

One night he stayed somewhat later than usual. It had been dreadfully
hot all day, but now it was gratefully cool. The stars were bright, as
he had never seen them bright before; the scent of the magnolias was
delicious, and he and Pert had been singing together. She looked more
than sweet in her thin, white dress, and the night, the perfume and the
music had stirred him strangely. He longed for the power to tell her
in beautiful words, he knew not what. But he had the good sense to
realize that he and poetry were far apart. Nevertheless, as he said
good night, he held her small white hand in his, till she forcibly
withdrew it, but not with any sign of anger.

How his heart swelled as he walked along. How he still thrilled with
the gentle pressure he fancied he had felt returned. Here was the
faintest opening to possibilities which migh