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FLAMING

YOUTH

“Not a step. Where did this roost-robber”—-she indicated Graves—“find you?” “T was looking on and wanting in,” replied the dismal and thwarted Pat. “Wait three years, until you’re seventeen. Away!” “Let me escort you to your—er—baby-carriage,” said the youth with an elaborate bow. The feeble witticism, meant only to cover his own sense of being at a loss, stabbed Pat. She averted her angry and tearful eyes as they crossed the floor together. “IT hate you,” she muttered. “Y’m crazy about you,” he retorted close to her ear. Instantly she was radiant again. “Good-night,” she said softly and ran up the stairs. The turn of the landing hid her from view. But, after a moment’s struggle with herself against doubt, she stopped and leaned out over the rail. There he stood with the blithe expectancy of his face upturned. Queer looking, unkempt, ill-dressed she might be, and hardly more than a child at that, but the glamour of her youth and her passion held him. “Don’t forget me,” he pleaded under his breath. She nodded. Forget him! With the fervent assurance of the neophyte she was sure that she never would, never could forget him and the moment which he had deified for her. And herein her inexperience was a true mentor. For, whatever else may pass from her crowded memories, a girl does not forget her first kiss. Pat had been mulcted of that dance which she had rebelliously promised herself. But there was compensation in overflowing measure. She had had her taste of life,