In a material way, she was considerably improved.  Her awkwardness had all but passed, leaving, if anything, a quaint residue which was as pleasing as perfect grace.  Her little shoes now fitted her smartly and had high heels.  She had learned much about laces and those little neckpieces which add so much to a woman’s appearance.  Her form had filled out until it was admirably plump and well-rounded.

Hurstwood wrote her one morning, asking her to meet him in Jefferson Park, Monroe Street.  He did not consider it policy to call any more, even when Drouet was at home.

The next afternoon he was in the pretty little park by one, and had found a rustic bench beneath the green leaves of a lilac bush which bordered one of the paths.  It was at that season of the year when the fullness of spring had not yet worn quite away.  At a little pond near by some cleanly dressed children were sailing white canvas boats.  In the shade of a green pagoda a bebuttoned officer of the law was resting, his arms folded, his club at rest in his belt.  An old gardener was upon the lawn, with a pair of pruning shears, looking after some bushes.  High overhead was the clean blue sky of the new summer, and in the thickness of the shiny green leaves of the trees hopped and twittered the busy sparrows.

Hurstwood had come out of his own home that morning feeling much of the same old annoyance.  At his store he had idled, there being no need to write.  He had come away to this place with the lightness of heart which characterizes those who put weariness behind.  Now, in the shade of this cool, green bush, he looked about him with the fancy of the lover.  He heard the carts go lumbering by upon the neighboring streets, but they were far off, and only buzzed upon his ear.  The hum of the surrounding city was faint, the clang of an occasional bell was as music.  He looked and dreamed a new dream of pleasure which concerned his present fixed condition not at all.  He got back in fancy to the old Hurstwood, who was neither married nor fixed in a solid position for life.  He remembered the light spirit in which he once looked after the girls—­how he had danced, escorted them home, hung over their gates.  He almost wished he was back there again—­here in this pleasant scene he felt as if he were wholly free.

At two Carrie came tripping along the walk toward him, rosy and clean.  She had just recently donned a sailor hat for the season with a band of pretty white-dotted blue silk.  Her skirt was of a rich blue material, and her shirt waist matched it, with a thin stripe of blue upon a snow-white ground—­stripes that were as fine as hairs.  Her brown shoes peeped occasionally from beneath her skirt.  She carried her gloves in her hand.

Hurstwood looked up at her with delight.

“You came, dearest,” he said eagerly, standing to meet her and taking her hand.

“Of course,” she said, smiling; “did you think I wouldn’t?”