The buggy trundled out of sight around the corner of the drive to an accompaniment of laughter and farewells. Miss Rosa was to spend the night at Waynewood, and she and Holly and Winthrop returned to the joggling-board, the girls spreading wraps over their shoulders. There were clouds in the sky, and the air held promise of rain. Holly was somewhat silent and soon dropped out of the conversation altogether. Winthrop and Rosa talked of books. Neither, perhaps, was a great reader, but they had read some books in common and these they discussed. Winthrop liked Miss Rosa far better than Miss Bartram. She was small, pretty in a soft-featured way, quiet of voice and manner, and all-in-all very girlish and sweet. She was a few months younger than Holly. She lived with her brother, Phaeton Carter, on his plantation some eight miles out on the Quitman road. Her parents were dead, but before their deaths, she told him wistfully, she had been all through the North and knew Washington well. Her father had served as Representative for two terms. She aroused Winthrop’s sympathies; there seemed so little ahead of her; marriage perhaps some day with one of their country neighbors, and after that a humdrum existence without any of the glad things her young heart craved. His sympathy showed in his voice, which could be very soft and caressing when it wanted to, and if Rosa dreamed a little that night of an interesting Northerner with sympathetic voice and eyes it wasn’t altogether her fault. Meanwhile they were getting on very well, so well that they almost forgot Holly’s existence. But they were reminded of it very suddenly. Holly jumped off the board and seized Rosa by the hand. “Bed time,” she announced, shortly. “Oh, Holly!” cried the girl, in dismay. “Why, it can’t be half-past ten yet!” “It’s very late,” declared Holly, severely. “Come along!” Rosa allowed herself to be dragged off the seat and into the house. Winthrop followed. At the foot of the stairs he said good-night, shaking hands as the custom was. “Good-night, Mr. Winthrop,” said Rosa, regretfully, smiling a trifle shyly at him across the rail. “Good-night, Miss Carter. We’ll settle our discussion when there is no ogress about to drag you away. Good-night, Miss Holly. I hope there’ll be many, many more birthdays as pleasant as this one.” “Good-night,” answered Holly, carelessly, her hand lying limply in his. “I’m not going to have any more birthdays――ever; I don’t like birthdays.” The glance which accompanied the words was hard, antagonistic. “Will you please lock the door, Mr. Winthrop?” “I’m sorry,” thought Winthrop, as he made his way to his room. “She’s only a child, and a child’s friendship is very jealous. I should have remembered that.” [Illustration]