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don’t like ask you to marry him or not have some one you do like. Both are rather unpleasant.

“I have decided that I only imagined certain things in the old John house. I’m afraid Aunt Ruth was right when she used to say my imagination needed a curb. This evening I loitered in the garden. In spite of the fact that it was June it was cold and raw, and I felt a little lonely and discouraged and flat—perhaps because two stories of which I had hoped a good deal came back to me today. Suddenly I heard Teddy’s signal whistle in the old orchard. Of course I went. It’s always a case of ‘Oh, whistle and I’ll come to you, my lad’ with me—though I would die before I would admit it to any one but my journal. As soon as I saw his face I knew he had some great news.

“He had. He held out a letter, ‘Mr. Frederick Kent.’ I never can remember that Teddy’s name is Frederick—he can never be anything but Teddy to me. He has won a scholarship at the School of Design in Montreal—five hundred dollars for two years. I was instantly as excited as he was—with a queer feeling behind the excitement which was so compounded of fear and hope and expectancy that I couldn’t tell which predominated.

“‘How splendid for you, Teddy!’ I said, a little tremulously. ‘Oh, I’m so glad! But your mother—what does she think of it?’

“‘She'll let me go—but she'll be very lonely and unhappy,’ said Teddy, growing very sober instantly. ‘I want her to come with me, but she won’t leave the Tansy Patch. I hate to think of her living there all alone. I—I wish she didn’t feel as she does about you, Emily. If she didn’t—you could be such a comfort to her.’

“I wondered if it occurred to Teddy that I might need a little comforting too. A queer silence fell between us. We walked along the Tomorrow Road—it has grown so beautiful that one wonders if any tomorrow can make it more beautiful—until we reached the fence of the pond pasture and stood there under the grey-green gloom of the firs. I felt suddenly very happy and in those few min-