was now going West to do some honest work in the world before he thought any more about girls.  I commended his manly decision.  He was rather rueful over the notion that he might have hurt Miss Talbert by his bad conduct.  I begged him not to distress himself, his first duty now was to get well.  I asked him if he would do me the favor, with the doctor’s permission, of taking the fresh air with his mother on the terrace of the hospital about half-past five that afternoon.  He looked puzzled, but promised that he would do it; and so we parted.

After dinner I requested Peggy to make me happy by going for a little drive in the runabout with me.  She came down looking as fresh as a wild rose, in a soft, white dress with some kind of light greenery about it, and a pale green sash around her waist, and her pretty, sunset hair uncovered.  If there is any pleasanter avocation for an old fellow than driving in an open buggy with a girl like that, I don’t know it.  She talked charmingly:  about my travels; about her college friends; about Eastridge; and at last about her disappointment in not going to Europe.  By this time we were nearing the Whitman hospital.

“I suppose you have heard,” said she, looking down at her bare hands and blushing; “perhaps they have told you why I wanted especially to go away.”

“Yes, my dear child,” I answered, “they have told me a lot of nonsense, and I am heartily glad that it is all over.  Are you?”

“More glad than I can tell you,” she answered, frankly, looking into my face.

“See,” said I, “there is the hospital.  I believe there is a boy in there that knows you—­name of Goward.”

“Yes,” she said, rather faintly, looking down again, but not changing color.

“Peggy,” I asked, “do you still—­think now, and answer truly—­do you still hate him?”

She waited a moment, and then lifted her clear blue eyes to mine.  “No, Uncle Gerrit, I don’t hate him half as much as I hate myself.  Really, I don’t hate him at all.  I’m sorry for him.”

“So am I, my dear,” said I, stretching my interest in the negligible youth a little.  “But he is getting well, and he is going West as soon as possible.  Look, is that the boy yonder, sitting on the terrace with a fat lady, probably his mother?  Do you feel that you could bow to him, just to oblige me?”

She flashed a look at me.  “I’ll do it for that reason, and for another, too,” she said.  And then she nodded her red head, in the prettiest way, and threw in an honest smile and a wave of her hand for good measure.  I was proud of her.  The boy stood up and took off his hat.  I could see him blush a hundred feet away.  Then his mother evidently asked him a question, and he turned to answer her, and so exit Mr. Goward.

The end of our drive was even pleasanter than the beginning.  Peggy was much interested in a casual remark expressing my pleasure in hearing that she had recently met the nephew of one of my very old friends, Stillman Dane.