“And Rose?”

“Rose went to work.  She had a hard time.  I never heard from her for weeks.  But she’s a telephone operator at the Exchange now.  She called me up one day lately and told me.  I hope to see her soon.”

“About those verses, Bessy.  How did Miss Hill find out who wrote them?”

“I told her.  Then she sent me home.”

“Have you any more verses you wrote?”

“Yes, a lot of them.  If you lend me your pencil, I’ll write out the verse that gave Miss Hill heart disease.”

Bessy took up a book that had been lying on the seat, and tearing out the fly-leaf, she began to write.  Her slim, shapely hand flew.  It fascinated Lane.

“There!” she said, ending with a flourish and a smile.

But Lane, foreshadowing the import of the verse, took the page with reluctance.  Then he read it.  Verses of this significance were new to him.  Relief came to Lane in the divination that Bessy could not have had experience of what she had written.  There was worldliness in the verse, but innocence in her eyes.

“Well, Bessy, my heart isn’t much stronger than Miss Hill’s,” he said, finally.

Her merry laughter rang out.

“Bessy, what will you do for me?”

“Anything.”

“Bring me every scrap of verse you have, every note you’ve got from boys and girls.”

“Shall I get them now?”

“Yes, if it’s safe.  Of course, you’ve hidden them.”

“Mama’s out.  I won’t be a minute.”

Away she flew under the trees, out through the rose bushes, a white, graceful, flitting figure.  She vanished.  Presently she came bounding into sight again and handed Lane a bundle of notes.

“Did you keep back any?” he asked, as he tried to find pockets enough for the collection.

“Not one.”

“I’ll go home and read them all.  Then I’ll meet you here to-night at eight o’clock.”

“But—­I’ve a date.  I’ll break it, though.”

“With whom?”

“Gail and a couple of boys—­kids.”

“Does your mother know?”

“I’d tell her about Gail, but that’s all.  We go for ice cream—­then meet the boys and take a walk.”

“Bessy, you’re not going to do that sort of thing any more.”

Lane bent over her, took her hands.  She instinctively rebelled, then slowly yielded.

“That’s part of our bargain?” she asked.

“Yes, it certainly is.”

“Then I won’t ever again.”

“Bessy, I trust you.  Do you understand me?”

“I—­I think so.”

“Daren, will you care for me—­if I’m—­if I do as you want me to?”

“I do now,” he replied.  “And I’ll care a thousand times more when you prove you’re really above these things....  Bessy, I’ll care for you as a friend—­as a brother—­as a man who has almost lost his faith and who sees in you some hope to keep his spirit alive.  I’m unhappy, Bessy.  Perhaps you can help me—­make me a little happier....  Anyway, I trust you.  Good-bye now.  To-night, at eight o’clock.”