Margaret Elizabeth certainly showed a flattering interest in all the Reporter had to say.  “Some day when you have become a great editor,” she assured him at parting, “I shall refer proudly to the afternoon when we sat together in a cave and ate ice cream.”

“Oh, now, Miss Bentley,” the Reporter protested in some embarrassment, “I’m sure I shall always think of it with pride, whatever I get to be, though that probably won’t be much.”

This conversation was not without its influence upon Miss Bentley’s subsequent attitude toward the Candy Man.  That some one else had found him a unique and interesting personality was reassuring, and the thought that he might be engaged on some secret mission was novel and suggestive.  She began to reconsider and readjust, and in future, although she still avoided the Y.M.C.A. corner, she allowed her thoughts to turn once in a while in that direction.

Meanwhile she paid two more visits to the Miser’s library, on these occasions laying deliberate siege to his reserve with all the charm of her bright friendliness.  She asked questions about his beloved prints; intelligent questions, for Margaret Elizabeth had grown up in an atmosphere of appreciation for things rare and fine.  She chatted about her father and his work, and even ventured some wise advice about fresh air and its tonic effect.  Indeed, it is a cause for wonder that she was able at the same time to collect the material which took shape later in that most erudite paper.

Under this invasion of youth and gaiety, the sombre, student atmosphere became charged with a new, electric current.  It was not owing solely to Miss Bentley, however, for Sunday evening now frequently found the Candy Man dropping in sociably to chat with Mr. Knight in his library.

In these days the Miser often sat leaning his head on his hand, a meditative, half whimsical expression on his face, as if he found both wonder and amusement in the chance that had so strangely brought these young people across his threshold.

One Sunday afternoon the Pennington motor, having deposited Margaret Elizabeth at the Vandegrift gate, with a scornful snort went on its swift way to more select regions.  It was the first really cold weather of the season, and while she waited at the door Margaret Elizabeth examined the thermometer, and then buried her nose in her muff.  “Dear me!” she exclaimed impatiently.  “Why doesn’t somebody come?”

She rang again with no uncertain touch upon the button this time, and then, crunching across the frozen grass, peeped in at her own window, where a glimpse of smouldering fire rewarded her.  She returned to the door to ring and rap, still with no response.