One day it rained a little; in fact, it often does so.  Florence Hay was returning home from the village just as the shower came up, and, partly out of regard for my mother, with whom she was a great favorite, partly from the fear of ruining her new spring bonnet, she stepped into our house.

My mother was delighted to see her, and made her quite at home directly.  It was no new thing for the little maiden to visit my mother; but on such occasions I had always, hitherto, taken flight to the fields or the hay-mow.  Now, however, it was raining hard, and I was holding silk for my mother to mind; and a retreat was impossible.

Though in exquisite torture, every moment, lest the pretty visitor should address some question to me, and oblige me to speak, yet I enjoyed being where I could look into her bewitching face immensely.  She had such blue eyes! and such cherry lips!  And those lips had kissed me!  I blushed red-hot to think of it, and my good mother anxiously commented on my high color, saying she was afraid I was going to have the erysipelas.  Erysipelas, indeed!

It rained all the afternoon.  Florence stayed to tea, and, by the time the meal was over, I had broken two plates, knocked down a saucer, upset the cream pitcher, and nearly cut the end of my thumb off with my knife.  Also, the rain had ceased, and it was dark.

Florence declared she could not stop another moment.  Her friends would be alarmed about her; she must go at once.  My mother urged her to remain all night.  But she could not think of it; and, while she was arranging her wraps, my mother beckoned me into the entry.

“Roy,” she said, decisively, “Florence should not go home alone!”

“I can’t help it!” said I, doggedly.  “I guess nothing will devour her on the journey.”

“My son!” she exclaimed, with just severity, “I cannot permit you to speak in that way of one whom I so highly respect!  It is ungentlemanly!  Your father is absent, the servant is busy, and Florence has a full half-mile to walk.  You will attend her home!”

My limbs trembled under me.  I should have darted from the back door, and left my mother’s favorite to shift for herself; but my austere relative had kept a firm hold of my arm, and, without further parley, drew me back to the parlor.

“If you must go, dear,” she said to Florence, “I will not urge you.  Roy will walk home with you.”

Florence opened wide her blue eyes in evident astonishment; and, as for me, the whole creation was in a whirl!  The room went round and round like a top—­I was obliged to grasp the back of a chair to keep from falling—­I was penetrated with speechless dismay.

“Roy!  Florence is waiting!” said my unrelenting mother.

There was no appeal.  To use a vulgar, but expressive phrase, I was “in for it;” and, nerved by a sort of desperate courage, which sometimes comes to the aid of the weak in great extremities, I flung open the door, blundered down the steps, and out into the street.  Florence followed leisurely behind, shut the gate after her, and fastened the latch.  How I envied her her provoking coolness!