“Won’t you give me half those blossoms?”

“No; it would spoil the bunch.”

“Please—­”

“No, not a single one.  You wouldn’t care for them, anyway.”

“Yes, I would.”  Here he stretched out his hand and touched the blossoms on her neck.

Lucy ducked her head in merry glee, sprang up, and with a triumphant curtsy and a “No, you don’t, sir—­not this time,” joined her sister, followed by art.

The guests were now separated into big and little groups.  Uncle Ephraim and the judge were hob-nobbing around the fireplace, listening to Uncle Ephraim’s stories and joining in the laughter which every now and then filled the room.  Captain Nat was deep in a discussion with Doctor John over some seafaring matter, and Jane and Mrs. Benson were discussing a local charity with Pastor Dellenbaugh.

The younger people being left to themselves soon began to pair off, the white-haired young lawyer disappearing with the older Miss Cromartin and Bart soon following with Lucy:—­the outer porch and the long walk down the garden path among the trees, despite the chilliness of the night, seemed to be the only place in which they could be comfortable.

During a lull in the discussion of Captain Nat’s maritime news and while Mrs. Benson was talking to the pastor, Doctor John seized the opportunity to seat himself again by Jane.

“Don’t you think Lucy improved?” she asked, motioning the doctor to a place beside her.

“She’s much more beautiful than I thought she would be,” he answered in a hesitating way, looking toward Lucy, and seating himself in his favorite attitude, hands in his lap, one leg crossed over the other and hanging straight beside its fellow; only a man like the doctor, of more than usual repose and of a certain elegance of form, Jane always said, could sit this way any length of time and be comfortable and unconscious of his posture.  Then he added slowly, and as if he had given the subject some consideration, “You won’t keep her long, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, don’t say that,” Jane cried with a nervous start.  “I don’t know what I would do if she should marry.”

“That don’t sound like you, Miss Jane.  You would be the first to deny yourself.  You are too good to do otherwise.”  He spoke with a slight quiver in his voice, and yet with an emphasis that showed he believed it.

“No; it is you who are good to think so,” she replied in a softer tone, bending her head as she spoke, her eyes intent on her fan.  “And now tell me,” she added quickly, raising her eyes to his as if to bar any further tribute he might be on the point of paying to her—­“I hear your mother takes greatly to heart your having refused the hospital appointment.”

“Yes, I’m afraid she does.  Mother has a good many new-fashioned notions nowadays.”  He laughed —­a mellow, genial laugh; more in the spirit of apology than of criticism.

“And you don’t want to go?” she asked, her eyes fixed on his.