ly--to my great
surprise. "As nearly as I can get at it, that's the cardinal fault of
the girl of to-day. Everywhere I go I notice it--in public--in private.
Wherever she is she holds the floor, occupies the centre of the stage.
If you'll pardon my saying it, every last girl you had here this summer
did that thing, each in her own way."

I thought about them--one after another. It was true. Each had, in her
own way, occupied the centre of the stage. And the Gay Lady, than whom
nobody has a better right to keep fast hold of her position in the
foreground of all our thoughts, had allowed each one to do it. And
somehow, in every case, after all, the real focus for all our eyes,
quite without her being able to help it, had been wherever the Gay Lady
had happened to be.

We all went to bed early that night. The Philosopher's observations,
though highly interesting, did not keep us from becoming very sleepy at
an untimely hour. It was the same way next evening. And the next. In
fact, up to the very night before the Gay Lady's expected return, we
continued to cut short our days of waiting by as much as we could
venture to do without exciting the suspicion that we were weary of one
another.

On that last evening the Skeptic fastened himself to me. He insisted on
my walking with him in the garden.

"So she comes back to-morrow," said he, as we paced down the path, quite
as if he had just learned of the prospect of her return.

"I can hardly wait," said I.

"Neither can I," he agreed solemnly. "I knew I should miss her,
but--smoke and ashes!--I didn't dream the week would be a period of time
long enough for a ray of light to travel from Sirius to the earth and
back again."

"If she could only hear that!" said I.

"She's going to hear it," he declared with great earnestness. "She's
kept me quiet all summer, but--by a man's impatience!--she can't keep me
quiet any longer. Do you blame me?" he inquired, wheeling to look
intently at me through the September twilight.

"Not a bit," said I. "I've only wished she could stand still until Lad
grows up."

"You must think well of her, to say that," said he delightedly. "And, on
my word, I don't know but she will continue to stand still, as far as
looks go. But in mind--and heart--well, the only thing is, I'm so far
below her I don't dare to hope. All I know is that, for sheer womanly
sweetness and strength, there's nobody her equal. And yet, when I try to
put my finger on what