“She won’t be there in person,” said Fulkerson, “but she’ll be represented by the head of the art department.”

“Mah goodness!  And who’ll the head of the publishing department represent?”

“He can represent you,” said Alma.

“Well, Ah want to be represented, someho’.”

“We’ll have the banquet the night before you appear on the cover of our fourth number,” said Fulkerson.

“Ah thoat that was doubly fo’bidden,” said Miss Woodburn.  “By the stern parent and the envious awtust.”

“We’ll get Beaton to get round them, somehow.  I guess we can trust him to manage that.”

Mrs. Leighton sighed her resentment of the implication.

“I always feel that Mr. Beaton doesn’t do himself justice,” she began.

Fulkerson could not forego the chance of a joke.  “Well, maybe he would rather temper justice with mercy in a case like his.”  This made both the younger ladies laugh.  “I judge this is my chance to get off with my life,” he added, and he rose as he spoke.  “Mrs. Leighton, I am about the only man of my sex who doesn’t thirst for Beaton’s blood most of the time.  But I know him and I don’t.  He’s more kinds of a good fellow than people generally understand.  He doesn’t wear his heart upon his sleeve-not his ulster sleeve, anyway.  You can always count me on your side when it’s a question of finding Beaton not guilty if he’ll leave the State.”

Alma set her drawing against the wall, in rising to say goodnight to Fulkerson.  He bent over on his stick to look at it.  “Well, it’s beautiful,” he sighed, with unconscious sincerity.

Alma made him a courtesy of mock modesty.  “Thanks to Miss Woodburn!”

“Oh no!  All she had to do was simply to stay put.”

“Don’t you think Ah might have improved it if Ah had, looked better?” the girl asked, gravely.

“Oh, you couldn’t!” said Fulkerson, and he went off triumphant in their applause and their cries of “Which? which?”

Mrs. Leighton sank deep into an accusing gloom when at last she found herself alone with her daughter.  “I don’t know what you are thinking about, Alma Leighton.  If you don’t like Mr. Beaton—­”

“I don’t.”

“You don’t?  You know better than that.  You know that, you did care for him.”

“Oh! that’s a very different thing.  That’s a thing that can be got over.”

“Got over!” repeated Mrs. Leighton, aghast.

“Of course, it can!  Don’t be romantic, mamma.  People get over dozens of such fancies.  They even marry for love two or three times.”

“Never!” cried her mother, doing her best to feel shocked; and at last looking it.

Her looking it had no effect upon Alma.  “You can easily get over caring for people; but you can’t get over liking them—­if you like them because they are sweet and good.  That’s what lasts.  I was a simple goose, and he imposed upon me because he was a sophisticated goose.  Now the case is reversed.”