"Yes, of course, won't you come in?" "No, thank you. I'll just wait here." On the doorstep he waited, but not long; Stella quickly returned with the note and the flowers. She seemed embarrassed. "Ruth says she--she----" "Out with it, Stella." "She says she won't see you." "Won't see me! Is that just what she said?" The maiden hesitated. As a friend of both and strictly neutral, her position was awkward. "Why--yes." "Just what did she say, Stella?" "She said, give him back his flowers and his note and tell him not to come again." This was clear to the dullest lover. And the words cut deeper still as he saw in the face of the sharp eyed ambassadress an impressible gleam of pity--or exultation--he could not tell which. Cyrus blushed like a girl. For a moment his drowsy eyes gazed blindly at Stella, then at the flowers and the note as if trying to realize what had happened. The effort was painful. The flowers seemed to be jubilant in their gayety, and jeering at him. He had believed, until this moment, that he was prepared for the worst. He had also believed, from his knowledge of women in history and fiction that they changed their minds with ease--in short, that honest lovers never need despair. This blow seemed to paralyze his senses. But Pride came to his rescue. It made him realize the degradation of appearing a fool before Stella. So, collecting his scattered wits he raised his head and smiled upon the waiting maiden. There was a quivering of the lip, however, as he said in a manner laboriously offhand--and, of course, unsuccessful: "Oh, well, I must try again. Thank you, Stella. Good-by." As he reached the gate she saw him toss the flowers to the ground. His state of mind as he walked blindly along the village street, beneath the arching elms, could not be described in articulate language. Sorrow, anger, humiliation, all struggled for control. Resignation was not among them. So Ruth was really in earnest. If she hated and despised him, why live? This tumult within, while it numbed his senses--and might lead to tragedy--provided mirth for others. Just in front of the store a group of children ran across his path. They were followed, slowly, by a large Newfoundland dog, a well-known character in the village. He officiated, as is customary among dogs, as guardian and boon companion to children, all of whom he loved. His name was Major. He belonged to little Jason Howard, but he was on terms of intimacy with every child in Longfields. Major happened to stroll across the sidewalk just in front of Cyrus. The discarded lover, blind to outward things, collided with him. Always a gentleman and never forgetting his manners, Cyrus stopped, and--Ruth being the only thing in his mind--he raised his cap and bowed politely. "I beg your pardon. It was my fault. Excuse me."