Thorpe in the morning, won't you, my dear?"

Phyllis, snuggled in furs, wondered if she dared to make a remark, ever
so casually, about Mr. Landless; concluded she daren't, and resigned
herself to think of him in silence.

A week later John presented himself, in evening dress. Sir Peter chatted
with them for a while, and then buried himself in the "Engineering
Review." Over this he nodded, oblivious, while John recited his verses
to Phyllis at the other end of the long library. They were pretty
verses; Phyllis thought them beautiful. You should have seen John's
smile. He tried to screw his courage up to recite his "Lines to
Phyllis," but at ten he hadn't, and Sir Peter awoke then, and reentered
the conversation.

John said good-night to Sir Peter in the library. He would have to
Phyllis, also, but she went with him into the hall. Sir Peter followed
them there, and said good-night again, in the friendliest way.

Phyllis called on Saint Ruth's neighbors often in the weeks that
followed. Mindful of her uncle's command, she was never alone. Sometimes
Mrs. Thorpe, at others Peggy Neville, and quite often John Landless went
with her. The squalor and misery all about them was shocking to every
sense; hideous at its worst; but the sharp, sweet, bitter-sweet memories
of those winter afternoons will linger in Phyllis's mind as long as she
lives. Sad memories and joyous ones! And one more lovely than all the
rest.

There came a day when, long in advance of its arrival, there was a
sudden hint of spring. Carrying a parcel, John walked beside Phyllis.
The soft air was filled with magic. The mildness of it brought the
tenement dwellers to windows and doors.

"Warm, isn't it?" remarked John, trying to fan himself with the parcel,
and failing "Please don't walk so fast? I have something to tell you."

"Tell away, Mr. Landless, tell away," said Phyllis, gayly, and slackened
her pace. "Is there good news of your book? Do the flinty-hearted
publishers at last see their opportunity?"

"No, they don't," said John. "In fact--well, I am glad my opinion of my
poetry isn't governed by theirs."

Phyllis stole a quick look at his face; but the chin was uplifted,
confident as ever.

"Is the boys' club making progress?" she asked.

"Splendid! But I want to talk about you and me."

"You and me----" three little words. The subtle spring air wafted odors
of Arcady.

For a few moments they walked on silently John was preparing his
sen