"You are going away, aren’t you?" she had asked him gravely. "You have been to say good-bye to mother and the boys?" and she turned to accompany him to the boundary fence. "Yes," Paul replied, "and I was afraid I should have to go without seeing you." "It would not have mattered," she answered, "you saw me on Tuesday, only three days ago. What will it matter, when you are going away for years, whether you saw me on Tuesday or Friday?" "But I did not say good-bye on Tuesday," Paul returned, much amused. "That matters; don’t you think so?" "No," Hazel said quaintly. "Going away means good-bye. There is no need to say it, except in your heart." "Still I like to say it to you and in my heart as well," Paul persisted. "To-morrow, when I shall be already in Paris, I shall be saying, ’Good-bye, little Hazel, good-bye; don’t forget me.’ And then I shall like to recall how you looked and what you said in answer." At this juncture they had reached the fence dividing the two estates, and Paul turned to face his little companion. "I am going away for years," he said, a trifle wistfully. "Will you give a fellow a kiss, Hazel?" "No," Hazel returned decisively. "I am sorry, but I am too old. You may take both my hands, if you like," she added graciously. Paul gratefully possessed himself of the proffered hands, and looked long into the upturned childish eyes. "I wonder whether you will be as pretty when I come back as you are now," was his boyish comment. "I don’t know," Hazel returned indifferently. "I hope I shan’t be any browner," she added; "the boys do tease me so." "And shall you be saying ’good-bye, Paul,’ in your heart to-morrow?" he asked eagerly. "Of course," she said earnestly, somewhat surprised at the question. "All the time till you are home again." "Let me hear you say it now," he entreated. "Good-bye, Paul," she said obediently, and made to withdraw her hands. "And you are quite sure about the—about the kiss?" he asked diffidently. Hazel regarded him in mild reproach. "I am sorry," he said hastily. "I did not mean to ask again. Good-bye, Hazel; don’t forget me." He vaulted over the fence and was gone. Following the same twisting path that he had passed over then, with his child companion, the young man was presently aware that his dog, which had trotted on ahead, was leaping backwards and forwards before a certain tree, breaking into short, excited barks. Thinking it likely that Towzer was scaring some pet or other of Hazel’s, Paul called sharply to his four-footed friend, but was not heeded by that usually most obedient of dogs. Becoming angry, he quickened his pace, and, raising his stick, was about to punish Towzer, when, to his astonishment, its point was seized from above and held firmly—after one or two ineffectual efforts to wrest it from his hand—while a girlish voice said, in laughing tones: "No, you don’t."