hair, the shimmer of her dainty pink dress, and the fluffy wave of her lace scarf as she crossed and recrossed in a waltz, left him, apparently, in no discontent.  He watched with parted lips, his pale cheeks reddening whenever those fair glimpses were his.  At last she came out to the veranda with Eugene and sat upon a little divan, so close to Joe that, daring wildly in the shadow, he reached out a trembling hand and let his fingers rest upon the end of her scarf, which had fallen from her shoulders and touched the floor.  She sat with her back to him, as did Eugene.

“You have changed, I think, since last summer,” he heard her say, reflectively.

“For the worse, ma cherie?” Joe’s expression might have been worth seeing when Eugene said “ma cherie,” for it was known in the Louden household that Mr. Bantry had failed to pass his examination in the French language.

“No,” she answered.  “But you have seen so much and accomplished so much since then.  You have become so polished and so—­” She paused, and then continued, “But perhaps I’d better not say it; you might be offended.”

“No.  I want you to say it,” he returned, confidently, and his confidence was fully justified, for she said: 

“Well, then, I mean that you have become so thoroughly a man of the world.  Now I’ve said it!  You are offended—­aren’t you?”

“Not at all, not at all,” replied Mr. Bantry, preventing by a masterful effort his pleasure from showing in his face.  “Though I suppose you mean to imply that I’m rather wicked.”

“Oh no,” said Mamie, with profound admiration, “not exactly wicked.”

“University life is fast nowadays,” Eugene admitted.  “It’s difficult not to be drawn into it!”

“And I suppose you look down on poor little Canaan now, and everybody in it!”

“Oh no,” he laughed, indulgently.  “Not at all, not at all!  I find it very amusing.”

“All of it?”

“Not you,” he answered, becoming very grave.

“Honestly—­don’t you?” Her young voice trembled a little.

“Honestly—­indeed—­truly—­” Eugene leaned very close to her and the words were barely audible.

“You know I don’t!”

“Then I’m—­glad,” she whispered, and Joe saw his step-brother touch her hand, but she rose quickly.  “There’s the music,” she cried, happily.  “It’s a waltz, and it’s yours!”

Joe heard her little high heels tapping gayly towards the window, followed by the heavier tread of Eugene, but he did not watch them go.

He lay on his back, with the hand that had touched Mamie’s scarf pressed across his closed eyes.

The music of that waltz was of the old-fashioned swingingly sorrowful sort, and it would be hard to say how long it was after that before the boy could hear the air played without a recurrence of the bitterness of that moment.  The rhythmical pathos of the violins was in such accord with a faint sound of weeping which he heard near him, presently, that for a little while he believed this sound to be part of the music and part of himself.  Then it became more distinct, and he raised himself on one elbow to look about.