"Over in another street," I answered, with deliberate vagueness. Nancy had suddenly become demure. I did not dare look at her, but I had a most uncomfortable notion that she suspected the plot. Meanwhile we had begun to walk along, all three of us, Tom, obviously ill at ease and discomfited, lagging a little behind. Just before we reached the corner I managed to kick him. His departure was by no means graceful. "I've got to go;" he announced abruptly, and turned down the side street. We watched his sturdy figure as it receded. "Well, of all queer boys!" said Nancy, and we walked on again. "He's my best friend," I replied warmly. "He doesn't seem to care much for your company," said Nancy. "Oh, they have dinner at half past two," I explained. "Aren't you afraid of missing yours, Hugh?" she asked wickedly. "I've got time. I'd--I'd rather be with you." After making which audacious remark I was seized by a spasm of apprehension. But nothing happened. Nancy remained demure. She didn't remind me that I had reflected upon Tom. "That's nice of you, Hugh." "Oh, I'm not saying it because it's nice," I faltered. "I'd rather be with you than--with anybody." This was indeed the acme of daring. I couldn't believe I had actually said it. But again I received no rebuke; instead came a remark that set me palpitating, that I treasured for many weeks to come. "I got a very nice valentine," she informed me. "What was it like?" I asked thickly. "Oh, beautiful! All pink lace and--and Cupids, and the picture of a young man and a young woman in a garden." "Was that all?" "Oh, no, there was a verse, in the oddest handwriting. I wonder who sent it?" "Perhaps Ralph," I hazarded ecstatically. "Ralph couldn't write poetry," she replied disdainfully. "Besides, it was very good poetry." I suggested other possible authors and admirers. She rejected them all. We reached her gate, and I lingered. As she looked down at me from the stone steps her eyes shone with a soft light that filled me with radiance, and into her voice had come a questioning, shy note that thrilled the more because it revealed a new Nancy of whom I had not dreamed. "Perhaps I'll meet you again--coming from school," I said. "Perhaps," she answered. "You'll be late to dinner, Hugh, if you don't go...." I was late, and unable to eat much dinner, somewhat to my mother's alarm. Love had taken away my appetite.... After dinner, when I was wandering aimlessly about the yard, Tom appeared on the other side of the fence. "Don't ever ask me to do that again," he said gloomily. I did meet Nancy again coming from school, not every day, but nearly every day. At first we pretended that there was no arrangement in this, and we both feigned surprise when we encountered one another. It was Nancy who possessed the courage that I lacked. One afternoon she said:--"I think I'd better walk with the girls to-morrow, Hugh."