The time came when I could no longer keep this thing to myself.  The need of an outlet, of a confidant, became imperative, and I sought out Tom Peters.  It was in February; I remember because I had ventured—­with incredible daring—­to send Nancy an elaborate, rosy Valentine; written on the back of it in a handwriting all too thinly disguised was the following verse, the triumphant result of much hard thinking in school hours:—­

          Should you of this the sender guess
          Without another sign,
          Would you repent, and rest content
          To be his Valentine

I grew hot and cold by turns when I thought of its possible effects on my chances.

One of those useless, slushy afternoons, I took Tom for a walk that led us, as dusk came on, past Nancy’s house.  Only by painful degrees did I succeed in overcoming my bashfulness; but Tom, when at last I had blurted out the secret, was most sympathetic, although the ailment from which I suffered was as yet outside of the realm of his experience.  I have used the word “ailment” advisedly, since he evidently put my trouble in the same category with diphtheria or scarlet fever, remarking that it was “darned hard luck.”  In vain I sought to explain that I did not regard it as such in the least; there was suffering, I admitted, but a degree of bliss none could comprehend who had not felt it.  He refused to be envious, or at least to betray envy; yet he was curious, asking many questions, and I had reason to think before we parted that his admiration for me was increased.  Was it possible that he, too, didn’t love Nancy?  No, it was funny, but he didn’t.  He failed to see much in girls:  his tone remained commiserating, yet he began to take an interest in the progress of my suit.

For a time I had no progress to report.  Out of consideration for those members of our weekly dancing class whose parents were Episcopalians the meetings were discontinued during Lent, and to call would have demanded a courage not in me; I should have become an object of ridicule among my friends and I would have died rather than face Nancy’s mother and the members of her household.  I set about making ingenious plans with a view to encounters that might appear casual.  Nancy’s school was dismissed at two, so was mine.  By walking fast I could reach Salisbury Street, near St. Mary’s Seminary for Young Ladies, in time to catch her, but even then for many days I was doomed to disappointment.  She was either in company with other girls, or else she had taken another route; this I surmised led past Sophy McAlery’s house, and I enlisted Tom as a confederate.  He was to make straight for the McAlery’s on Elm while I followed Powell, two short blocks away, and if Nancy went to Sophy’s and left there alone he was to announce the fact by a preconcerted signal.  Through long and persistent practice he had acquired a whistle shrill enough to wake the dead, accomplished by placing a finger of each hand between his teeth;—­a gift that was the envy of his acquaintances, and the subject of much discussion as to whether his teeth were peculiar.  Tom insisted that they were; it was an added distinction.