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he spoke very deliberately and looked directly at her—“I don’t suppose one ever forgets the first.”

“The first———?”

“Yes. Oh, I know I shall get over this when I’m away, and I’ll probably fall in love a dozen times; but you were the first—you know that.”

“Yes, I knew.”

There was nothing more to be said. Reminiscences were impossible, and they could not go on to discuss future plans. Tony’s hungry eyes were fixed on Alison as if he were trying to learn every feature by heart; hers, wet and wistful, gazed back at him, till he sprang to his feet, seized her hand in both of his, and said “Good-bye!”

“Good-bye!” Alison’s lips barely framed the word—she could not bear him to go, her wayward, unsatisfactory, dearly loved Little Boy! She raised her face to his—surely it was safe enough now—he was going away—he would forget so soon—did he not say so himself? But he shook his head with a fierce, unboyish gesture; then bent and kissed her hand instead, and, almost flinging it from him, fled away out of the room.

He was gone indeed, this will-o’-the-wisp, this fugitive Tony; and it was a tearful, lonely Alison who came to Winthrop for comfort an hour later.