ect.

"No, Bobby," replied his mother, "I don't think Celia would care for it.
It is cheap-looking. She has several very pretty bangles already; and
this is not a good one."

Nevertheless, Bobby, being as we have said thoroughly masculine,
deliberated some days further, and bought it. The price was two
dollars--an almost fabulous sum. Most men give their wives or
sweethearts what they think they would like themselves were they women,
and were a man to offer a gift. That is one reason why in so many bureau
drawers are tucked away unused presents. Young as she was, Celia had the
taste not to care for the moonstone bangle, but, like all the rest, she
accepted it with genuine delight because Bobby gave it. She even wore
it. These were the principal transactions of the kind; but anything
Bobby particularly fancied he brought her. Shortly she became possessed
of a bewildering collection consisting variously of large glass marbles
with a twist of coloured glass inside; two or three lichi nuts, then a
curiosity; a dried gull's wing; several exploded shotgun shells; and a
"real," though broken-pointed chisel. Celia gave Bobby her tiny narrow
gold ring with two little turquoises. He could just get it on his little
finger, and wore it proudly, in spite of jeers. Being teased about Celia
was embarrassing to the point of pain; but in the last analysis it was
not unpleasant.

So matters slipped by. Abruptly the end of August came. One day Bobby
found Celia much perturbed.

"I can't go out long," she said, "I've got to help mamma."

"What doing?" asked Bobby.

But Celia shook her head dolefully.

"Come, let's go walk somewhere and I'll tell you," said she.

They crossed Main Street to the shaded street on which lived Georgie
Cathcart.

"What is it?" demanded Bobby again.

"We are going home to-morrow," Celia announced mournfully. "Mamma has a
letter."

Bobby stopped short.

"Going home!" he echoed.

"Yes," said Celia.

"Then we won't see each other till next summer!" he cried.

"No," said she.

"And we can't walk any more or--or----" Bobby felt the lump rising in
his throat.

"No," said Celia.

Bobby swallowed hard.

"Are--are you sorry?" he asked.

"Yes," replied Celia quietly. "Are you?"

"I don't know what I'm going to do!" cried Bobby desperately.

After a little, the main fact of the catastrophe being accepted, they
talked of the winter to come.

"You'll write me some letters, won't you?" pleaded