He carried Mary's books home from school, he took her to the little neighbourhood parties, he sent her frilly pink valentines, and once--only once--he stripped his mother's rose garden because it was Mary's birthday. It also happened to be Mrs. Hawley's afternoon to entertain the whist club, and she had been counting on those roses for decorations. If my memory serves me, she allowed Mary to keep the flowers, but she stopped the amount of a florist's bill out of her son's allowance of fifty cents a Week. The Hawley's are all practical people. Mary's father used to fuss and fume and say that he hoped Bill would get over it and park his big clumsy feet on somebody else's front porch, but I don't think he really minded it as much as he pretended he did. Mrs. Brooke often remarked that since it had to be somebody she would rather it would be Bill than any other boy in the neighbourhood. Even in those days there was something solid and dependable about Bill Hawley; he was the sort of kid that could be trusted, and more of a man at sixteen than some fellows will ever be. During Mary's high-school days several boys carried her books, but not for long, and Bill was always there or thereabouts, waiting patiently in the background. When another youngster had the front porch privilege Bill did not sulk or rock the boat, and if the green-eyed monster was gnawing at his vitals there were no outward signs of anguish. We always knew when one of Mary's little affairs was over because Bill would be back on the job, nursing his shin on Brooke's front steps and filling the whole block with an air of silent devotion. I suppose he grew to be a habit with Mary; such things do happen once in a while. Then Bill went away to college, and while he was struggling for a sheepskin Mary entered the débutante period. Some of the women said that she wasn't pretty, but they would have had a hard time proving it to a jury of men. Her features may not have been quite regular, but the general effect was wonderfully pleasing; so the tabbies compromised by calling her attractive. They didn't have a chance to say anything else, because Mary was always the centre of a group of masculine admirers, and if that doesn't prove attraction, what does? In addition to her good looks she was bright as a new dollar--so bright that she didn't depend entirely on her own cleverness but gave you a chance to be clever yourself once in a while. Mary Brooke knew when to listen. She listened to Waddles once, from one end of a country-club dinner to the other, and he gave her the dead low down on the reformer in politics--a subject on which the old boy is fairly well informed. I think his fatherly interest in her dated from that evening--and incidentally let me say it was the best night's listening that Mary ever did, because if Waddles hadn't been interested--but that's getting ahead of the story.