ld have taken place.

The Street emptied. The boy wiped the warm band of his hat and slapped
it on his head again. She was always treating him like this--keeping him
hanging about, and then coming out, perfectly calm and certain that
he would still be waiting. By George, he'd fool her, for once: he'd go
away, and let her worry. She WOULD worry. She hated to hurt anyone. Ah!

Across the Street, under an old ailanthus tree, was the house he
watched, a small brick, with shallow wooden steps and--curious
architecture of Middle West sixties--a wooden cellar door beside the
steps.

In some curious way it preserved an air of distinction among its more
pretentious neighbors, much as a very old lady may now and then lend
tone to a smart gathering. On either side of it, the taller houses had
an appearance of protection rather than of patronage. It was a matter
of self-respect, perhaps. No windows on the Street were so spotlessly
curtained, no doormat so accurately placed, no "yard" in the rear so
tidy with morning-glory vines over the whitewashed fence.

The June moon had risen, sending broken shafts of white light through
the ailanthus to the house door. When the girl came at last, she stepped
out into a world of soft lights and wavering shadows, fragrant with tree
blossoms not yet overpowering, hushed of its daylight sounds of playing
children and moving traffic.

The house had been warm. Her brown hair lay moist on her forehead, her
thin white dress was turned in at the throat. She stood on the steps,
the door closed behind her, and threw out her arms in a swift gesture to
the cool air. The moonlight clothed her as with a garment. From across
the Street the boy watched her with adoring, humble eyes. All his
courage was for those hours when he was not with her.

"Hello, Joe."

"Hello, Sidney."

He crossed over, emerging out of the shadows into her enveloping
radiance. His ardent young eyes worshiped her as he stood on the
pavement.

"I'm late. I was taking out bastings for mother."

"Oh, that's all right."

Sidney sat down on the doorstep, and the boy dropped at her feet.

"I thought of going to prayer meeting, but mother was tired. Was
Christine there?"

"Yes; Palmer Howe took her home."

He was at his ease now. He had discarded his hat, and lay back on his
elbows, ostensibly to look at the moon. Actually his brown eyes rested
on the face of the girl above him. He was very happy. "He's crazy about
Chris. She