you were finishing?"

He looked up from his plate, the light of happiness already dimming a
little in his eyes.

"I saw--" He hesitated. Then he said quite simply, "Yes."

"Did you know why?" Kathryn took another olive, as she spoke.

In total silence, he shook his head.

There was a little pause, while Kathryn's teeth met in the soft ripe
olive. Then,--

"Well, it was this: that final gesture of yours is awfully effective.
You know the one I mean, your hands shut on your stole just at your
shoulders? I hate to have you give it up; but, really, I'm afraid
you'll have to. In the long run, it is bound to get your stoles shabby,
especially the white one; and, now I have all the--the little things to
make, I can't keep embroidering new stoles. After this, when you see me
making up the face I put on, this morning, you'll please remember it
must be 'hands down'. Another olive? Take them away then, Mary."

That same afternoon, Reed Opdyke was astounded to receive a long call
from his recreant parson.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

"Where away?"

With the question, Dolph Dennison flung himself into step at Olive
Keltridge's side, one morning in late January. Two inches of snow
crackling under foot and a coating of hoarfrost on all the elm trees
was answering as a fair substitute for winter; and the blood of both
young people was tingling with even that unwonted sting. Nevertheless,
though walking briskly, Olive had been lost in a brown study, and she
started, as Dolph's genial hail fell on her ears. Then she nodded
gayly.

"Ditto. Why aren't you in class?" she demanded.

"It's low-minded to be eternally talking shop," he told her. "Why can't
you for once let me delude myself into the belief that I'm like a lily
of the field, without a spinning wheel in sight?"

"A lily in a fur-lined coat!" Olive's accent was disdainful. "You ought
to be ashamed to be rolled up like this, this splendid morning."

Dolph eyed her seal jacket accusingly.

"I am," he confessed. "I'm immensely proud of my fur lining, and I hate
like thunder to go out, buttoned up. One might as well be lined with
quilted farmer satin, with an imitation-mink shawl collar, for all the
glory he gets out of winter. That's where you women score; you wear
your wool outside."

"Yes; but we don't turn up our collars, a day like this," Olive mocked
him. "Really, Dolph, you're growing soft. But you haven't answered my
question. Why aren't you at a class?"

"Y