watha Club
into a private camp, and closing it to the town, but nobody protested
much. He was ordering a complete set of slip covers from the furniture
department of Ward's Emporium, and the daring group of prominent
business men who ventured to assail the Colonel's political views and
private morals sometimes in the little room at the rear of the store
lacked support from Ward. Neil had the run of the store and hung about
and listened, but never contributed. Whether these criticisms were
justified or not, the Everards were back again.

Judith had given up the Lyceum dance for the first of the Everard
dinners the night before. It was three days since Neil had seen her, and
he was to see her to-day, but he was showing no impatience for the
meeting. The end of the world, not the beginning of it, that was what
spring would mean to him, and that is a graver catastrophe at eighteen
than at eighty. The boy who was facing it had passed the outlying
straggle of houses, and had come to the edge of the town, and to the end
of the long, hilly street that led down past the court-house, straight
into Post Office Square, the heart of the town. It was still empty of
traffic at ten, and looked sunny and empty and clean, wide-awake for the
day. He took his hands out of his pockets, stopped whistling "Amos
Moss," and hurried down Court-house Hill, stepping in time to the tune
of it.

A mud-splashed Ford clattered down Main Street, and drew up in front of
the post-office as Neil reached it with a flourish that would have done
credit to a more elegant equipage than this second-hand one of the
Nashes. Two elegant young gentlemen, week-end guests of Willard's and
duly presented to Neil the night before, ignored his existence, perusing
a gaudily covered series of topical songs with exaggerated attention on
the rear seat of the car, but Willard greeted him exuberantly:

"Ah, there, Murph. You don't look like the morning after. Sorry I
haven't got room for you. We've got other plans. We love the ladies."

"I'm tied up, anyway. So long."

Willard's tone was too patronizing, but he was not to blame, for the
days when they would exchange intimate greetings at all were numbered.
As Neil left them one of the elegant guests demanded audibly:

"Who's your friend?"

Neil flushed but did not look back. He had an errand to do in the few
minutes before his appointment with Judge Saxon. He crossed the street
to Ward's store.

Ward's Dry Goods Emp