permitting myself an
exaggeration of what had been to Alice only a pleasant association, for
she greeted me composedly and waited for me to justify my presence.

After a few moments of explanation, I suggested that we go out and hear
the singing of the "troupe." To this she consented, and rose
quietly--she never did anything hurriedly or with girlish alertness--and
put on her hat. Although so young, she had the dignity of a woman, and
her face, pale as a silver moon, was calm and sweet, only her big gray
eyes expressed the maiden mystery. She read my adoration and was a
little afraid of it.

As we walked, I spoke of the good days at "the Sem," of our classmates,
and their future, and this led me to the announcement of my own plans.
"I shall teach," I said. "I hope to be able to work into a professorship
in literature some day.--What do you intend to do?"

"I shall go on with my studies for a while," she replied. "I may go to
some eastern college for a few years."

"You must not become too learned," I urged. "You'll forget me."

She did not protest this as a coquette might have done. On the contrary,
she remained silent, and I was aware that while she liked and respected
me, she was not profoundly moved by this farewell call. Nevertheless I
hoped, and in that hope I repeated, "You will write to me, won't you?"

"Of course!" she replied, and again I experienced a chilling perception
that her words arose from friendliness rather than from tenderness, but
I was glad of even this restrained promise, and I added, "I shall write
often, for I shall be lonely--for a while."

As I walked on, the girl's soft warm arm in mine, a feeling of
uncertainty, of disquiet, took possession of me. "Success" seemed a long
way off and the road to it long and hard. However, I said nothing
further concerning my doubts.

The street that night had all the enchantment of Granada to me. The
girl's voice rippled with a music like that of the fountain Lindarazza,
and when I caught glimpses of her sweet, serious face beneath her
hat-rim, I dreaded our parting. The nearer to her gate we drew the more
tremulous my voice became, and the more uncertain my step.

At last on the door-step she turned and said, "Won't you come in again?"

In her tone was friendly dismissal, but I would not have it so. "You
will write to me, won't you?" I pleaded with choking utterance.

She was moved (by pity perhaps).

"Why, yes, with pleasure," she answered. "Go