n't force him, he is so delicate. How well you
look, Gunhild! And you too, Mr. Milford." The man would have yielded
against his will; the woman saw this and declined the invitation. She
said that they had an engagement to dine. Milford looked at her in
surprise. He thought of the frost-tinted leaf. Mrs. Blakemore was
sorry--she said. It would be such a disappointment to Bobbie. George was
out of town. She bade them an effusive good-bye, mounted her wheel,
pulling at her short skirts, and glided away.

"Engagement to dine?" said Milford, as they turned from watching Mrs.
Blakemore.

"Yes, at the little bakery over by the edge of the park."

"Oh, I see. But I thought you wanted to go with her."

"I knew that you did not," she replied.

"But did you?" he asked.

"I would not spoil a beautiful day," she answered.

They dined at the bakery, flattering themselves that the girl who waited
on them did not know that they were lovers. They did not see her wink at
her fat mother behind the showcase.

"I haven't asked you how long I may stay," said Milford, as they walked
out.

"I was afraid to come to that," she replied. "I must leave on the train
to-night. I have only waited for you."

"When do you think I can see you again?"

"I do not know. I will write."

"Remember that nothing can keep us apart--nothing but yourself."

"Then we shall not be kept apart. But why do you leave it with me?"

"Because you are to decide when I tell you something."

"Do you put it off because it is so hard to tell?"

"No, because I'm not ready yet. I will be when I close out with the old
woman."

"I would like to know now."

"It would be plucking green fruit," he replied.

"You know best," she said, trustfully.

The air grew chilly when the sun had set, and they returned to the
cottage to sit alone in the parlor. They heard the kindly tones of the
gripman talking to his children. There was a melodeon in the room, and
she played a Norwegian hymn. The barefoot youngsters scampered in the
passage-way.

"Let them come in," he said.

"No, they are undressed for bed," she replied. It was the evening romp,
a tired mother's trial-time before the hour of rest when all are asleep.

He went to the railway station with her; walked that they might be
longer on the road, looked at cottages, gazed up at flats, planning for
the future. In the deep secrecy of a crowd he kissed her good-bye, and
then went forth to stroll about the town. H