Guy had been aware during the service of the saintly pageant along the windows of the clerestory slowly dimming, and he was not surprized, when he came out, to see that clouds were dusking the first brilliance of the day. Mrs. Grey, Monica and Margaret had prayed each in a different part of the church; but now in the porch they fluttered about Pauline with an intimate and happy awareness of her birthday, almost seeming to wrap her in it, so that she in flushed responsiveness wore all her twenty years like a bunch of roses. Guy was sensitive to the faint reluctance with which her mother and sisters resigned her to him on this birthday morning; but yet to follow them back from church with Pauline beside him in a trepidation of blushes and sparkles was too dear a joy for him in turn to resign. Half-way to the house Pauline remembered that her father had been left alone. This was too wide a breach in her birthday's accustomed ceremony, and much dismayed she begged Guy to go back with her. At that moment the rest of the family had disappeared round a curve in the walk, and Guy caught Pauline to him, complaining she had not kissed him since he was home. "Oh, but Father!" she said breathlessly tugging. "He'll be so hurt if we've gone on without him." Guy felt a stab of jealousy that even a father should intrude upon his birthday kiss for her. "Oh, very well," he said half coldly. "If to see me again after a fortnight means so little...." "Guy," said Pauline, "you're not cross with me? And Father was so sweet about you. He said, 'Is Guy coming to breakfast?' Guy, you mustn't mind if I think a lot about everybody to-day. You see, this is my first birthday when there has been you." "Oh, don't remind me of the years before we met," said Guy. "I hate them all. No, I don't," he exclaimed in swift penitence. "I love them all. Hurry, darling girl, or we shall miss him." Pauline's eyes were troubled by a question, behind which lurked a fleeting alarm. "Kiss me," she murmured. "I was horrid." A kind of austerity informed their kiss of reconciliation, an austerity that suited the sky of impending rain under which they were standing in the light of the last wan sunbeam. Then they hurried to the churchyard where in the porch the Rector was looking vaguely round for the company he expected. "Lucky my friend Lorteti came out yesterday. This rain will ruin him. You must take Guy to see that iris, my dear. Fancy, twenty-one to-day, dear me! dear me! most remarkable!" Pauline danced with delight behind the Rector's back. "He thinks I'm twenty-one," she whispered. "Oh, Guy, isn't he sweet? And he called you Guy. Oh, Francis," she cried. "Do let me kiss you."