"I accepted the inevitable after a while; but when I see you in the midst of a crowd of men, dealing out dances and smiles, you appear to me like some stranger, with a marvellous resemblance to a girl I once played with, called Indiana. Here, in the country, and up in the Adirondacks you are the real Indiana." "That’s nonsense! We can’t be girl and boy forever. There’s something else in life—I suppose." "What?" said Glen. "I don’t know," answered Indiana impatiently, "but it’s individual. People must discover it for themselves—" "Have you?" asked Glen. "No," answered Indiana. "I have," said Glen. "Tell me." "Not now." "This sort of life is all very well, but in order to develop, one must see the world, must be of the world. I don’t believe in a groove." "Your mother did," said Glen. "How can you compare me to ma? She’s the old-fashioned type, bless her heart!" "Look at this day," said Glen irrelevantly. "I believe in enjoying what we have. This is one day out of life. There’ll never be another like this—not just like this. The blossoms are going—" "They’ll come again, next year," said Indiana. "Yes, but we may be different, that’s the trouble. I’d like to keep this day—everything is so young and tender and spring-like—and you’re part of it all. The sun sinking over there; the rosy clouds above our heads—there’s a soft, pink light on the whole orchard—it’s shining down, through the branches, on your face. I wish there was an artist—the best in the world—living hereabouts. I’d jump on my wheel, and bring him in a trice, with his color-box and his canvas. But it would be even too late—to catch this light. I’d have him paint the whole thing with you in the foreground, among the blossoms—that glow on your face. I’d call the picture, ’Indiana.’" *[Illustration: "I’d call the picture, ’Indiana.’" (missing from book)]* "And you, Glen? You wouldn’t be in it at all." "I’d own the picture," said Glen. A slight breeze swept through the orchard, bringing a snowy shower from the trees. There was a tinkling of bells, not far away. "The cows have just come home," said Indiana. "Glen, what will you do with yourself this summer, if you don’t go with us to Narragansett?" "I’ll stay with the folks, till you all go up to the camp. Then I’ll join you on our old hunting grounds—if you want me—" "Why!" exclaimed Indiana. "It wouldn’t seem like the Adirondacks, if you weren’t there." Glen smiled gratefully. "How are the folks?" "Well, thanks. They were talking about you, to-day." "I’ll ride over there to-morrow." "They’ll be glad to see you. They love you just—just like a daughter." "I like people to love me," said Indiana.