“Yes, I had, rather.”

“It’s behind the times,” said the boy; and, as he spoke he himself looked quite up to the times.  He had handsome, clearly cut features and black eyes, which seemed at the same time to demand and question.  He had something of a supercilious air, although the expression of youthful innocence and honesty was still evident on his face.  He wore a new suit as well as Maria, only his was gray instead of brown, and he wore a red carnation in his button-hole.  Maria inhaled the clovy fragrance of it.  At the next station more passengers got into the train, and Wollaston seized upon that excuse to ask to share Maria’s seat.  They talked incessantly—­an utterly foolish gabble like that of young birds.  An old gentleman across the aisle cast an impatient glance at them from time to time.  Finally he arose stiffly and went into the smoker.  Their youth and braggadocio of innocence and ignorance, and the remembrance of his own, irritated him.  He did not in the least regret his youth, but the recollection of the first stages of his life, now that he was so near the end, was like looking backward over a long road, which had led to absurdly different goals from what he had imagined.  It all seemed inconceivable, silly and futile to him, what he had done, and what they were doing.  He cast a furious glance at them as he passed out, but neither noticed it.  Wollaston said something, and Maria laughed an inane little giggle which was still musical, and trilled through the car.  Maria’s cheeks were burning, and she seldom looked at the boy at her side, but oftener at the young autumn landscape through which they were passing.  The trees had scarcely begun to turn, but here and there one flamed out like a gold or red torch among the green, and all the way-sides were blue and gold with asters and golden-rod.  It was a very warm morning for the season.  When they stopped at one of the stations, a yellow butterfly flew in through an open window and flitted airily about the car.  Maria removed her coat, with the solicitous aid of her companion.  She cast a conscious glance at the orange and blue on her sleeves.

“Say, that dress is a stunner!” whispered Wollaston.

Maria laughed happily.  “Glad you like it,” said she.

Before they reached Wardway, Wollaston’s red carnation was fastened at one side of her embroidered vest, making a discord of color which, for Maria, was a harmony of young love and romance.

“That is the academy,” said Wollaston, as the train rolled into Wardway.  He pointed to a great brick structure at the right—­a main building flanked by enormous wings.  “Are you frightened?” he asked.

“I guess not,” replied Maria, but she was.

“You needn’t be a bit,” said the boy.  “I know some of the boys that go there, and I went to see the principal with father.  He’s real pleasant.  I know the Latin teacher, Miss Durgin, too.  My Uncle Frank married her cousin, and she has been to my house.  You’ll be in her class.”  Wollaston spoke with a protective warmth for which Maria was very grateful.