In the dusty room among the ghosts of dead seasons and the mouldering store amassed by the suns of other years, they stood locked, heart to heart. Before Guy went home that night, when they were lingering in the hall, he told Pauline that the next thing to be done was to write to his own father. "Guy, do you think he'll like me?" "Why, how could he help it? But he may grumble at the idea of my being engaged." "When do you think he'll write?" "I expect he'll come down here to see me. In the Spring he wrote and said he would." "Guy, I'm sure he's going to make it difficult for you." Guy shook his head. "I know how to manage him," he proclaimed confidently. Then he opened the door; along the drive the wind moaned, getting up for a gusty Bartlemy-tide. Pauline stood in the lighted doorway letting the light shine upon him until he was lost in the shadows of the tall trees, sending, as he vanished, one more kiss down the wind to her. "Are you happy to-night?" asked her mother, bending over Pauline when she was in bed. "Oh, Mother darling, I'm so happy that I can't tell you how happy I am." In the candlelight her new ring sparkled; and when her mother was gone she put beside it the crystal ring, and it seemed to sparkle still more. Pauline was in such a mood of tenderness to everything that she petted even her pillow with a kind of affection and she had the contentment of knowing she was going to meet sleep as if it were a great benignant figure that was bending to hear her tale of happy love. ANOTHER AUTUMN _September_