Judith and her fancy work, covers for Nettie’s bureau, had taken possession of the light in the bay window; as the light faded, she sat thinking with her work in her lap. Roger entered and threw himself upon the lounge, clasping his hands above his head; his thinking was weaving itself in and out of a suggestion of his mother’s that she should take Judith home for the winter. To the suggestion he had replied nothing at all. “Then the doubt is gone,” answered Judith, brightly. “I do not know how to put my thought.” “Isn’t that rather a new experience?” “It is the experience of every day,” she answered, unmindful of his teasing. “I wonder why God keeps us so much in the dark.” “Perhaps we keep ourselves in the dark.” “That is what I wanted to know.” “Can you tell me exactly what you mean? Are you in the dark about anything?” “About everything,” she exclaimed with such energy that his only reply was a laugh. “Just now I mean one special thing that I cannot tell you about.” “O, Judith, are you growing up to have secrets?” he groaned. “I am growing up _with_ secrets. Aunt Rody used to exasperate me by telling me I would ‘outgrow’ something, when all the time I knew I was growing into something.” “Growing into a new thing is the best way to outgrow an old thing.” “Then I am satisfied about something.” Roger wished that he could be—about something. “I wish I could tell you. But I don’t know why I shouldn’t. I’m afraid Marion doesn’t care for Mr. King, and I want her to so much.” In the twilight she could not see the illumination in the face across the room on the lounge. He was satisfied about something. “What are you getting down into?” he asked jubilantly. “Why,” pricking her work with her needle, “I think he—cares a great deal, and he is so splendid that I want her to care. How they would work together. Bensalem has been getting her ready.” “Well, I declare!” he exclaimed, rising to his feet. “Are you displeased?” “There’s nothing to be displeased about. Is this the way girls plot against each other? No wonder we men have to tread softly.” “It isn’t plotting exactly. It’s only hoping.” “Is that your secret?” “Yes, and don’t you tell,” she said, alarmed. “No; it shall be my secret; yours and mine. Now what are we going to do about it?” “We cannot do anything. She admires him around the edges, somehow. And he’s as shy of her as he can be. I seem to be always interpreting them to each other.” He laughed, greatly amused. “In spite of my selecting the most innocent love-stories for you, you have grown up to the depth, or height, of this. I’ll never dare put a finger in a girl’s education again.” “But, Roger—” “Don’t ask me to help you out.” “Marion will not. She doesn’t seem to understand anything.” “No wonder,” thought Roger, remembering her early experience; “she has been a burnt child; she’ll never play with that kind of fire again.”