“No,” she answered.  “I’m willing to grow with Love, from all the promise of Spring into the harvest and even into Winter, as long as the sweetness is there.  Don’t you understand, Allan?  Who would wish for June when Indian Summer fills all the silences with shimmering amethystine haze?  And who would give up a keen, crisp Winter day, when the air sets the blood to tingling, for apple blossoms or even roses?  It’s not that—­I only want the sweetness to stay.”

“Please God, it shall,” returned Allan, solemnly.  He was profoundly moved.

[Sidenote:  Bank of Life]

“It shouldn’t be so hard to keep it,” went on Eloise, thoughtfully.  “I’ve been thinking about it a good deal, lately.  Life will give us back whatever we put into it.  In a way, it’s just like a bank.  Put joy into the world and it will come back to you with compound interest, but you can’t check out either money or happiness when you have made no deposits.”

“Very true,” he responded.  “I never thought of it in just that way before.”

“If you put joy in, and love, unselfishness, and a little laughter, and perfect faith—­I think they’ll all come back, some day.”

A scarlet leaf from a maple danced along the beach, blown from some distant bough where the frost had set a flaming signal in the still September night.  A yellow leaf from an elm swiftly caught it, and together they floated out to sea.

[Sidenote:  When?]

“Sweetheart,” said Allan, “do you see?  The leaves are beginning to fall and in a little while the trees will be bare.  How long are you going to keep me waiting for wife and home?”

“I—­don’t—­know.”

“Dear, can’t you trust me?”

“Yes, always,” she answered, quickly.  “You know that.”

“Then when?”

“When all the colour is gone,” she said, after a pause.  “When the forest is desolate and the wind sighs through bare branches—­when Winter chills our hearts—­then I will come to you, and for a little while bring back the Spring.”

“Truly, Sweetheart?”

“Truly.”

“You’ll never be sorry, dear.”  He took her into his arms and sealed her promise upon her lips.

XVIII

The Passing of Fido

[Sidenote:  Alone in the Office]

Fido had been in the office alone for almost three hours.  The old man, who he knew was his master, and the young man, who was inclined to be impatient with him when he felt playful, had both gone out.  The door was locked and there was nobody on the other side of it to answer a vigorous scratch or even a pleading whine.  When people knocked, they went away again, almost immediately.

The window-sills were too high for a little dog to reach, and there was no chair near.  He walked restlessly around the office, stopping at intervals to sit down and thoughtfully contemplate his feet, which were much too large for the rest of him.  He chased a fly that tickled his ear, but it eluded him, and now buzzed temptingly on a window-pane, out of his reach.