upon the outside, however, for Billy
Westlake and Sam Turner were eying each other solely with a vacuous
mutual wish of saying something decently polite and human. Mr. Turner
made a desperate stab.

"I hope you're in good form for the bowling tournament to-night," he
observed with self-urged anxiety. "Hollis Creek mustn't win, you know."

"I'm as near fit as usual," said Billy; "but Princeman is the chap
who's going to carry off the honors for Meadow Brook. Bowled an
average last night of two forty-five. I'm sorry you couldn't make the
team."

"I should have started fifteen years ago to do that," said Sam with a
wry smile. "I think I would get along all right, though, if they
didn't have those grooves at the side of the alleys."

Billy Westlake looked at him gravely. Since Sam did not smile, this
could not be a joke.

"But they are absolutely necessary, you know," he protested, as he took
his sister's arm and helped her down the slope.

Miss Westlake went away entirely out of patience with the two men, and
very much to Billy's surprise gave him her revised estimate of that
Hastings girl. Miss Hastings, however, was in a far different frame of
mind. She was an exclamation point of admiration about an endless
variety of things; about the dear little amphitheatre, about how well
her friend Miss Westlake was looking and how successful Hallie had been
this summer in reducing, and how much Mr. Turner was improving in his
tennis and croquet and riding and bowling and everything. "And, Mr.
Turner, what is pulp? And do they actually make paper out of it?" she
wound up.

Very gravely Mr. Turner informed her on the process of paper making,
and she was a chorus of little vivacious ohs and ahs all the way
through. She sat on the side of the stone circle from which she could
look down the road, and she chattered on and on and on, and still on,
until something she saw below warned her that she was staying an
unconscionable length of time, so she rose and told Mr. Turner they
must really go, and held out her hand to be helped down the slope.
That was really a very slippery rock, and it was probably no fault of
Miss Hastings that her feet slipped and that she had to throw herself
squarely into Mr. Turner's embrace, and even throw her arm up over his
shoulder to save herself. It was a staggery place, even for a sturdily
muscled young man like Mr. Turner to keep his footing, and with that
fair burden upon him he had