see not the least reason for supposing
that his feelings will change."

"And would you advise her to marry the other--A?"

"Well, on the whole, I should. A is a good fellow (I think we made A a
good fellow), he is a suitable match, his love for her is true and
genuine--"

"It's tremendous!"

"Yes--and--er--extreme. She likes him. There is every reason to hope
that her liking will develop into a sufficiently deep and stable
affection. She will get rid of her folly about B, and make A a good
wife. Yes, Miss May, if I were the author of your novel I should make
her marry A, and I should call that a happy ending."

A silence followed. It was broken by the philosopher.

"Is that all you wanted my opinion about, Miss May?" he asked, with his
finger between the leaves of the treatise on ontology.

"Yes, I think so. I hope I haven't bored you?"

"I've enjoyed the discussion extremely. I had no idea that novels
raised points of such psychological interest. I must find time to read
one."

The girl had shifted her position till, instead of her full face, her
profile was turned toward him. Looking away toward the paddock that lay
brilliant in sunshine on the skirts of the apple orchard, she asked in
low slow tones, twisting her hands in her lap:

"Don't you think that perhaps if B found out afterward-when she had
married A, you know--that she had cared for him so very, very much, he
might be a little sorry?"

"If he were a gentleman he would regret it deeply."

"I mean--sorry on his own account; that--that he had thrown away all
that, you know?"

The philosopher looked meditative.

"I think," he pronounced, "that it is very possible he would. I can
well imagine it."

"He might never find anybody to love him like that again," she said,
gazing on the gleaming paddock.

"He probably would not," agreed the philosopher.

"And--and most people like being loved, don't they?"

"To crave for love is an almost universal instinct, Miss May."

"Yes, almost," she said, with a dreary little smile. "You see, he'll
get old, and-and have no one to look after him."

"He will."

"And no home."

"Well, in a sense, none," corrected the philosopher, smiling. "But
really you'll frighten me. I'm a bachelor myself, you know, Miss May."

"Yes," she whispered, just audibly.

"And all your terrors are before me."

"Well, unless--"

"Oh, we needn't have that 'unless'," laughed the philosopher,
cheerfully. "There's no 'unle