"If I wish you--" began the young man hurriedly. "We will come and show you about the flowers in the spring," briskly. "The spring!" "Frances," called her father. "You are not angry?" she questioned quickly and softly, as they went down the steps. "No!" was all he said, yet Frances was quite satisfied with his friendliness as he put them in the trap and tucked the robes about them. "Mind the old hill," he cautioned her father; "there's a new road through the wood to the left now--" "I remember." "And a tree is cut down across the old way; but it's dark in there and you might get into it." "No danger!" assured the professor; "but Edward," as if in sudden remembrance, "there's another danger in the road to town--the freshet." "Freshet?" "Has no one cautioned you? The streams flood the country after a heavy rain. The one below the big hill is especially dangerous. Don't forget it when the heavy rains set in, and don't be venturesome; there have been some dreadful accidents there." "I had not heard," said Edward carelessly. "Then you had better heed," declared the professor sententiously, as he stepped into the vehicle, "and when the water is out over the bridge, stay on the side you happen to be caught on." "I'll remember, thank you." "All right! Good night! When are you coming in?" "Not for a day or two," owned the young man reluctantly, as he stood, his hand still on the wheel; "there's the ploughing for spring wheat." "It's time that was done!" "But I have had so much else." "Yes, yes." Starlight was twisting restlessly across the drive from one side to the other. "Good night, we've enjoyed it immensely." "Good night!" called the women, and they left him there in the circling drive, the great empty house looming behind him, a light in one window--the window of his own room. He went up the wide, high steps slowly. The evening had not been all he dreamed it might be, nor had it been a failure; and they were coming again. She had said she wished it. He threw himself into the chair the professor had lounged in and began to live over again the hours of her visit, leaving out the bitter and hugging to his memory the sweet. He recalled her supple figure, her gay words as they wandered about the old place; he remembered their tour of the house and reddened at the thought of his rudeness. It was only a careless speech, she could not have known how it jarred upon other deeper feelings. He recalled with a wave of tenderness, the subdued young woman of the evening, and smiled at the memory; it was a mood he had never seen before, and it won upon his heart; and dwelling on the thought of it, he began once more to dream what the old house would be were it full of life, to plan what could be done here and there, without and within, for cheer and comfort and beautiful living.