“I love to; only it would be nicer if I knew what we were working for,” she said demurely, as she scattered type for the last time; and seeing that Jack was both tired and grateful, hoped to get a hint of the secret.

“I want to tell you, dreadfully; but I can’t, because I’ve promised.”

“What, never?”

“Never!” and Jack looked as firm as a rock.

“Then I shall find out, for I haven’t promised.”

“You can’t.”

“See if I don’t!”

“You are sharp, but you won’t guess this.  It’s a tremendous secret, and nobody will tell it.”

“You’ll tell it yourself.  You always do.”

“I won’t tell this.  It would be mean.”

“Wait and see; I can get anything out of you if I try;” and Jill laughed, knowing her power well, for Jack found it very hard to keep a secret from her.

“Don’t try; please don’t!  It wouldn’t be right, and you don’t want to make me do a dishonorable thing for your sake, I know.”

Jack looked so distressed that Jill promised not to make him tell, though she held herself free to find out in other ways, if she could.

Thus relieved, Jack trudged off to school on Friday with the two dollars and seventy-five cents jingling in his pocket, though the dear gold coin had to be sacrificed to make up the sum.  He did his lessons badly that day, was late at recess in the afternoon, and, as soon as school was over, departed in his rubber boots “to take a walk,” he said, though the roads were in a bad state with a spring thaw.  Nothing was seen of him till after tea-time, when he came limping in, very dirty and tired, but with a reposeful expression, which betrayed that a load was off his mind.  Frank was busy about his own affairs and paid little attention to him, but Jill was on tenter-hooks to know where he had been, yet dared not ask the question.

“Merry’s brother wants some cards.  He liked hers so much he wishes to make his lady-love a present.  Here’s the name;” and Jill held up the order from Harry Grant, who was to be married in the autumn.

“Must wait till next week.  I’m too tired to do a thing to-night, and I hate the sight of that old press,” answered Jack, laying himself down upon the rug as if every joint ached.

“What made you take such a long walk?  You look as tired as if you’d been ten miles,” said Jill, hoping to discover the length of the trip.

“Had to.  Four or five miles isn’t much, only my leg bothered me;” and Jack gave the ailing member a slap, as if he had found it much in his way that day; for, though he had given up the crutches long ago, he rather missed their support sometimes.  Then, with a great yawn, he stretched himself out to bask in the blaze, pillowing his head on his arms.

“Dear old thing, he looks all used up; I won’t plague him with talking;” and Jill began to sing, as she often did in the twilight.