Betty played a tune on Nick’s shoulder. “Drive straight to the border,” she told him in a sepulchral voice, then to Grant: “Stuffy old thing! I’ve been cooped in all day till I could _scream_—, thank goodness, we can forget it’s Sunday at Paragon Park!” What was there about visiting an amusement park on Sunday to call forth such dignity from Grant? It was almost like his mother might have spoken—Joy anxiously intervened before the brother-and-sister controversy became too distressing: “It’s Mr. Cortland’s car, so we can’t help where they go;—but we can sit and wait for them.” So they sat in the car outside Paragon Park, while Betty went in to try her fiancé’s endurance on the roller-coaster and in eating pop-corn. The time raced by as swiftly as their heart-beats; they had a whole day to catch up with, Grant said. “Our whole lives, too, Grant,” Joy whispered against his lips. “To think that we never knew each other—before!” “But—loving this way is much more beautiful! If we had known each other always—love would have made no more impression than a—a candle lighted in a room blazing with electricity. But what a difference—when the candle is lit in the darkness!” “Joy, how can you say such wonderful things? You say them all—everything that I can only feel, you say—or sing! How can a girl like you ever be satisfied with me?” “Don’t, Grant—that’s blasphemy! Or something!” “I can’t bear to think of you going away to-morrow. We’ve seen each other so little. I’ll be coming up to Boston every day, though.” “Every day!—Every single day? Could—could we honestly keep that up?” “Silly girl. . . . Now you make me feel almost up to your level. Do you realize how much we’ll have to see of each other before we dare spring an engagement on my people?” “Oh . . . I had forgotten all about . . . people and things,” she mumbled and the exalted rhythm of her heart-beat sagged ever so little. Mrs. Grey had such adequately discouraging eyes. . . . IV ” Pa,” said Joy, “would you let me sing Louise to-day?—I—feel—just—like it!” It was nine o’clock of a Monday morning; Joy had ridden up to town on an early train and gone straight to her lesson. She had burst into the studio, cheeks aflame, singing almost before she entered. Her scales had gone well; her tones were carrying more point, and were delivered with a resonance that made the windows vibrate. Pa was looking exhilarated; his old eyes were almost shining. “We shall make a Louise out of you!” he said now for the first time since that first day. “As well as a tender Mimi and a piteous Butterfly and a heart-torn Gilda! But not yet. There is no use in toying with those airs for quite a while.” “But I want to show you,” said Joy. “Please let me, Pa—I may never be in Louise’s mood again!”