Lane returned to town weaker in one way than when he had left, yet stronger in another.  Upon the outskirts of Middleville he crossed the river road and sat down upon a stone wall.  The afternoon was far spent and the sun blazing red.  Lane wiped his moist face and fanned himself with his hat.  Behind him the shade of a wooded garden or park looked inviting.  Back in the foliage he espied the vine-covered roof of an old summer house.

A fresh young voice burst upon his meditations.  “Hello, Daren Lane.”

Lane turned in surprise to behold a girl in white, standing in the shade of trees beyond the wall.  Somewhere he had seen that beautiful golden head, the dark blue, almost purple eyes.

“Good afternoon.  You startled me,” said Lane.

“I called you twice.”

“Indeed?  I beg pardon.  I didn’t hear.”

“Don’t you remember me?” Her tone was one of pique and doubt.

Then he remembered her.  “Oh, of course.  Bessy Bell!  You must forgive me.  I’ve been ill and upset lately.  These bad spells of mine magnify time.  It seems long since the Junior Prom.”

“Oh, you’re ill,” she returned, compassionately.  “You do look pale and—­won’t you come in?  It’s dusty and hot there.  Come.  I’ll take you where it’s nice and cool.”

“Thank you.  I’ll be glad to.”

She led him to a green, fragrant nook, where a bench with cushions stood half-hidden under heavy foliage.  Lane caught a glimpse of a winding flagged path, and in the distance a cottage among the trees.

“Bessy, do you live here?” he asked.  “It’s pretty.”

“Yes, this is my home.  It’s too damn far from town, I’ll say.  I’m buried alive,” she replied, passionately.

The bald speech struck Lane forcibly.  All at once he remembered Bessy Bell and his former interest.  She was a type of the heretofore inexplicable modern girl.  Lane looked at her, seeing her suddenly with a clearer vision.  Bessy Bell had a physical perfection, a loveliness that needed neither spirit nor animation.  But life had given this girl so much more than beauty.  A softness of light seemed to shine round her golden head; smiles played in secret behind her red lips ready to break forth, and there was a haunting hint of a dimple in her round cheek; on her lay the sweetness of youth subtly dawning into womanhood; the flashing eyes were keen with intellect, with fire, full of promise and mystic charm; and her beautiful, supple body, so plainly visible, seemed quivering with sheer, restless joy of movement and feeling.  A trace of artificial color on her face and the indelicacy of her dress but slightly counteracted Lane’s first impression.

“You promised to call me up and make a date,” she said, and sat down close to him.

“Yes.  I meant it too.  But Bessy, I was ill, and then I forgot.  You didn’t miss much.”

“Hot dog!  Hear the man.  Daren, I’d throw the whole bunch down to be with you,” she exclaimed.