been interested in that; it's been no end of fun."

"And then," Quin pursued his point quite brazenly, "there's me. I hope
you are a little bit interested in me?"

She tried to take it lightly. "Interested in you? Why, of course I am. We
all are. Uncle Ranny was saying only this morning----"

"I don't care a hang what he said. It's _you_ I'm talking about. Do you
like me any better than you did in the spring?"

"You silly boy, I've always liked you."

"But I told you I wanted a lot. Have I made any headway?"

"Headway? I should say you have. I never saw such improvement! If the
university classes have done this much for you in four months, what will
you be by the end of the year?"

"That's right," said Quin bitterly. "Open the switch and sidetrack me!
But just tell me one thing: is there anybody you _are_ interested in?"

"Now, see here, Quin," said Eleanor peremptorily, "you haven't any right
to ask me questions like that. All I promised was that you could be my
chum."

"Yes; but I meant a chum plus."

"Well, you'd better look out or you will be a chum minus." Then she
caught sight of his eyes, and leaned forward in sudden contrition. "I'm
sorry to hurt you, Quin, but you must understand----"

"I do," he admitted miserably. "Only this week out here together, and the
way you've looked at me sometimes, made me kind of hope----" His voice
broke. "It's all right. I'll wait some more."

This was the time Eleanor should have carried out her intention of going
back to the house. Instead, she sat on in the deepening twilight under
the feminine delusion that she was being good to the miserable youth who
sat huddled close to her knees on the step below her.

Through his whole big being Quin was quivering with the sense of her
nearness, afraid to move for fear something stronger than his will would
make him seize her slender little body and crush it to him in an agony of
tenderness and yearning.

"How beautiful it is out here now!" she said softly. "Don't you love the
feel of wings everywhere? Little flying things going home? Everything
seems to be whispering!"

Quin did not answer. He sat silent and immovable until the light in the
valley had quite faded, and the twitter of the birds had been superseded
by the monotonous, mournful plaint of a whip-poor-will in a distant tree.
Then he stirred and looked up at Eleanor with a rueful smile.

"I know what's the matter with that damned old bird," he said. "He's in