“I wish you not to forget it. In the spring, on my nineteenth birthday, I shall decide upon my future. Just think, I have a future,” she laughed. “I am only too glad of the study and music this winter. Then I shall go out into the world, or go back to Aunt Affy. I do not mean to be too proud—” with a quiver of the lip. “Only just proud enough. You are exactly that. Let us live in peace this winter, and then your nineteenth birthday may do its worst for us all.” “You will not be serious,” she answered, with vexed tears; “my life is a great deal to me.” “It is a great deal to us all, dear. Work and be patient, and you will have as happy an ending as any story you write.” “My children end as children,” she said, with a quick laugh. “I shouldn’t know what to do with them if they grew up.” “There is One who does know what to do with his children when they grow up,” said Roger, bending as he stood beside her and touching her lips with his own. It was the first time he had ever kissed her. She took the kiss as gravely and simply as it was given. Something was sealed between them. She would never be proud with him again. “I will not kiss you again,” said Roger to himself, “until you promise to be my wife.” That afternoon Roger asked Marion to drive to Meadow Centre. “I am glad you did not ask Judith,” replied Marion, with something in her voice. “Why not?” he asked, indignantly, “why shouldn’t I ask Judith to drive with me?” “My point was not driving with you, but driving to Meadow Centre.” “I confess I do not understand you.” “I knew you didn’t. Men are blind creatures.” “Then open the eyes of one blind creature.” “Haven’t you seen that Mr. King is interested in Judith?” she asked, somewhat impatiently. “We are all interested in Judith.” “Not just as _he_ is. You are not,” looking straight into his frank, smiling eyes. “You don’t mean—” “Yes, I do mean—” “What about _her_?” he asked with the color hot in his face. But Marion was a “blind creature” then and did not see. “I don’t know about her. She isn’t grown up enough to think. But I know he is wonderfully attractive to her.” “He’s a good fellow. I will not stand in his way.” “For pity’s sake, Roger, don’t think you must do anything,” cried Marion, dismayed; “let her alone. He will take care of himself.” “I shall certainly let her alone. He is so artless that he will be taken care of. It is like him to stumble into the best thing in the universe and then wonder how he ever got it.” “I hope you don’t call Meadow Centre one of the best things,” retorted Marion. “It’s a good place for a man to make something of himself; he is writing sermons that will make a stir somewhere. Meadow Centre is to him what Paul’s three years in Arabia were to him.” “Then we must do our best to make Judith ready—” “What a plotter you are,” he exclaimed, angrily; then, more quietly: “But we will make Judith ready,” and he walked off with a laugh that was a mixture of things.