uite fair to Charlie See?"

"No," said Lyn contritely, "I'm not. I suppose we ought to tell him."

"We ought to tell everybody. So far as I am concerned, I would enjoy
being a sandwich man placarded in big letters: 'Property of Miss Lyn
Dyer.'"

"Why, Hobbiest--I thought it was rather nice that we had such a great
big secret all our own. But you're right--I see that now. I should
have met him at the door, I suppose, and said, 'You are merely wasting
your time, Mr. See. I will never desert my Wilkins!' Only that might
have been a little awkward, in a way, because, you see, 'Nobody asked
you to,' he said--or might have said."

"He never told you, then?"

"Not a word."

"But you knew?"

"Yes," said Lyn. "I knew." She twisted a button on his coat and spoke
with a little wistful catch in her voice. "I do like him, Hobby--I
can't help it. Only so much." She indicated how much on the nail of a
small finger. "Just a little teeny bit. But that little bit is--"

"Strictly plutonic?"

"Yes," she said in a small meek voice. "How did you know? He makes me
like him, Hobbiest. It--it scares me sometimes."

"Pretty cool, I'll say, for a girl that has only been engaged a week,
if you should happen to ask me."

"Oh, but that's not the same thing--not the same thing at all! You
couldn't keep me from liking you, not if you tried ever so hard. That
is all settled. But Charlie makes me like him. You see, he is such a
real people; I feel like the Griffin did about the Minor Canyon: 'He
was brave and good and honest, and I think I should have relished
him.'"

Hobby held her at arm's length and regarded her quizzically. "So
young, and yet so tender?"

"'So young, my lord, and true.'"

"Well," said Hobby resignedly, "I suppose we'll have to quarrel, of
course. They all do. But I don't know how to go about it. What do I
say next?"

"I might as well tell you the worst, angelest pieface. You ought
to know what a shocking horrid little creature your brown girl
really is. You won't ever tell--honest-to-goodness,
cross-your-heart-and-hope-to-die?"

"Never."

"Say it, then."

"Honest-to-goodness, cross-my-heart-and-hope-to-die."

She buried her face on his breast. "I dreamed about him last night,
Hobby. Wasn't that queer? I hadn't thought of him before for
months--weeks, anyhow."

"A week, maybe?" suggested Hobby.

"Oh, more than that! Two weeks, at the very least. I--I hate to tell
you," she whispered. "I--I dreamed I li