“Really? Then, you see, I have already lived twice as long as you have.” “Yes,” Holly nodded, thoughtfully. “Do you know, I don’t think I want to live to be real, real old; I think I’d rather die before――before that.” “And what do you call real, real old?” asked Winthrop. “Oh, I don’t know; fifty, I reckon.” “Then I have twelve years longer to live,” said Winthrop, gravely. Holly turned a pair of startled eyes upon him. “No, no! It’s different with you; you’re a man.” “Oh, that makes a difference?” “Lots! Men can do heaps of things, great, big things, after they’re old, but a woman――――” She paused and shrugged her shoulders in a funny, exaggerated way that Winthrop thought charming. “What is there for a woman when she’s that old?” “Much,” answered Winthrop, gravely, “if she has been a wise woman. There should be her children to love and to love her, and if she has married the right man there will be that love, too, in the afternoon of her life.” “Children,” murmured Holly. “Yes, that would be nice; but they wouldn’t be children then, would they? And――supposing they died before? The woman would be terribly lonely, wouldn’t she――in the afternoon?” Winthrop turned his face away and looked out across the sunlit garden. “Yes,” he said, very soberly; “yes, she would be lonely.” Something in his tones drew Holly’s attention. How deep the lines about his mouth were this morning, and how gray the hair was at his temples; she had not noticed it before. Yes, after all, thirty-eight was quite old. That thought or some other moved her to a sudden sentiment of pity. Impulsively she tore one of the big yellow roses from the bunch and with her free hand tossed it into his lap. “Do you know, Mr. Winthrop,” she said, softly, “I reckon we’re going to be friends, you and I,――that is, if you want to.” Winthrop sprang to his feet, the rose in his hand. “I do want to, Miss Holly,” he said, earnestly. Somehow, before she realized it, Holly’s hand was in his. “I want it very much. I haven’t very many friends, I guess, and when one gets toward forty he doesn’t find them as easily as he did. Is it a bargain, then? We are to be friends, very good friends, Miss Holly?” “Yes,” answered Holly, simply, “very good friends.” Her dark eyes looked seriously into his for a moment. Then she withdrew her hand, laughed softly under her breath and turned toward the door. But on the threshold she looked back over her shoulder, the old mischief in her face. “But don’t you go and forget that you’re my slave, Mr. Winthrop,” she said. “Never! You have fettered me with roses.” VII. [Illustration]