Why do they always outgrow that foolishness?" His voice was unsteady.

"Oh, I don't know. One's ideas change. Anyhow, I'm only telling you what
the book said."

"It's a silly book."

"I don't believe it's true," she confessed. "When I got started I just
read on. I was curious."

More eager than curious, had she only known. She was fairly vibrant with
the zest of living. Sitting on the steps of the little brick house,
her busy mind was carrying her on to where, beyond the Street, with its
dingy lamps and blossoming ailanthus, lay the world that was some day to
lie to her hand. Not ambition called her, but life.

The boy was different. Where her future lay visualized before her,
heroic deeds, great ambitions, wide charity, he planned years with her,
selfish, contented years. As different as smug, satisfied summer from
visionary, palpitating spring, he was for her--but she was for all the
world.

By shifting his position his lips came close to her bare young arm. It
tempted him.

"Don't read that nonsense," he said, his eyes on the arm. "And--I'll
never outgrow my foolishness about you, Sidney."

Then, because he could not help it, he bent over and kissed her arm.

She was just eighteen, and Joe's devotion was very pleasant. She
thrilled to the touch of his lips on her flesh; but she drew her arm
away.

"Please--I don't like that sort of thing."

"Why not?" His voice was husky.

"It isn't right. Besides, the neighbors are always looking out the
windows."

The drop from her high standard of right and wrong to the neighbors'
curiosity appealed suddenly to her sense of humor. She threw back her
head and laughed. He joined her, after an uncomfortable moment. But he
was very much in earnest. He sat, bent forward, turning his new straw
hat in his hands.

"I guess you know how I feel. Some of the fellows have crushes on girls
and get over them. I'm not like that. Since the first day I saw you I've
never looked at another girl. Books can say what they like: there are
people like that, and I'm one of them."

There was a touch of dogged pathos in his voice. He was that sort, and
Sidney knew it. Fidelity and tenderness--those would be hers if she
married him. He would always be there when she wanted him, looking at
her with loving eyes, a trifle wistful sometimes because of his lack of
those very qualities he so admired in her--her wit, her resourcefulness,
her humor. But he would be there, not strong, perhaps, bu