“It looked like it,” George replied, laughing.

“Why?” asked his mother.

“How do I know, mother dear?  I don’t think Miss Edgham altogether approves of me for some reason.”

“I should like to know what reason she has for not approving of you,” cried his mother, jealously.  She looked admiringly at her son, who was handsome, with a sort of rugged beauty, and whose face displayed strength, and honesty not to be questioned.  “I would like to know who Maria Edgham thinks she is.  She is rather pretty, but she cannot compare with Lily Merrill as far as that goes, and she is teaching a little district school, and from what I have seen of her, her manners are subject to criticism.  She is not half as lady-like as other girls in Amity.  When I think of the way she flew in here and attacked us for not clothing those disreputable people across the river, just because they have the same name, I can’t help being indignant.  I never heard of a young girl’s doing such a thing.  And I think that if she ran off when the bell rang, because she thought it was you, it was certainly very rude.  I think she virtually ascribed more meaning to your call than there was.”

“Lily said she had a headache,” said George, but his own face assumed an annoyed expression.  That version of Maria’s flight had not occurred to him, and he was a very proud fellow.  When he went up-stairs to his own room he continued wondering whether it was possible that Maria, remembering their childish love-affair, could have really dreamed that he had called that evening with serious intentions, and he grew more and more indignant at the idea.  Then the memory of that soft, hardly returned kiss which he had given Lily came to him, and now he did not feel vexed with himself because of it.  He was quite certain that Lily was too gentle and timid to think for a minute that he meant anything more than their old childish friendship.  The memory of the kiss became very pleasant to him, and he seemed to feel Lily’s lips upon his own like a living flower which thrilled the heart.  The next morning, when he took the trolley-car in front of his house, Maria was just passing on her way to school.  She was wading rather wearily, yet still sturdily, through the snow.  It had cleared during the night, and there were several inches of drifted snow in places, although some portions of the road were as bare as if swept by a broom of the winds.

Maria, tramping through the snow, which was deep just there, merely glanced at George Ramsey, and said good-morning.  She had plenty of time, if she had chosen to do so, to express her regrets at not seeing him the evening before, for the car had not yet reached him.  But she said nothing except good-morning, and George responded rather curtly, raising his hat, and stepping forward towards the car.  He felt it to be unmistakable that Maria wished him to understand that she did not care for his particular acquaintance, and the sting