“The party was quite complete, after all,” he said at the door.  “I’ve enjoyed this little after-affair as much as I did the party.”

“I’m glad,” she whispered.

“And it was wonderfully good of you to give me that present.”

“I’m glad,” she repeated.

“Do you know what I was thinking about when I opened the book and saw it was from you?”

“No; what?”

“Why, I thought, we’ll read this book together, you and I.”

“Wouldn’t that be fine!”

“We can’t do that now, of course; but after a while when we get more time.  I’ll not read it until then....  Well, you’re tired.  Go to bed.  Good night, Carlia.”

“Goodnight, Dorian, and thank you for helping me.”

They stood close together, she on the step above him.  The lamp, placed on the kitchen table for her use, threw its light against the glass door which formed a background for the girl’s roughened hair, soiled and sweat-stained face, and red, smiling lips.

“Goodnight,” he said again; and then he leaned forward and kissed her.

CHAPTER TEN.

That goodnight’s kiss should have brought Dorian back to Carlia sooner than it did; but it was nearly a month before he saw her again.  The fact that it was the busiest time of the year was surely no adequate excuse for this neglect.  Harvest was on again, and the dry-farm called for much of his attention.  Dorian prospered, and he had no time to devote to the girls, so he thought, and so he said, when occasion demanded expression.

One evening while driving through the city and seeing the lights of the moving picture theatre, he was reminded of his promise to Carlia.  His conscience pricked him just a little, so the very next evening he drove up to Farmer Duke’s.  Seeing no one choring about, he went into the house and inquired after Carlia.  Mrs. Duke told him that Carlia had gone to the city that afternoon.  She was expected back any minute, but one could never tell, lately, when she would get home.  Since this Mr. Lamont had taken her to the city a number of times, she had been late in getting home.

“Mr. Lamont?” he inquired.

“Yes; haven’t you met him?  Don’t you know him?”

“No; who is he?”

“Dorian, I don’t know.  Father seems to think he’s all right, but I don’t like him.  Oh, Dorian, why don’t you come around oftener?”

Mrs. Duke sank into a chair and wiped away the tears from her eyes with the corner of her apron.  Dorian experienced a strange sinking of the heart.  Again he asked who this Mr. Lamont was.

“He’s a salesman of some kind, so he says.  He drives about in one of those automobiles.  Surely, you have seen him—­a fine-looking fellow with nice manners and all that, but—­”

“And does Carlia go out with him?”

“He has taken her out riding a number of times.  He meets her in the city sometimes.  I don’t know what to make of it, Dorian.  I’m afraid.”