As she sat at the open window, the faint and measured tramp of steps along the porch reached her. It was Winthrop, she knew. And at the very thought her heart gave a quick throb that was at once a joy and a pain. Oh, why couldn’t people be just happy in such a beautiful world? Why need there be disappointments, and heartaches? If only she could go to him and explain it all! He would take her hand and look down at her with that smiling gravity of his, and she would say quite fearlessly: “I love you very dearly. I can’t help it. It isn’t my fault, nor yours. But you must make it easy for me, dear. You must go away now, but not for ever; I couldn’t stand that. Sometimes you must come back and see me. And when you are away you will know that I love you more than anything in the world, and I will know that you love me. Of course, we must never speak again of our love, for that would be wicked. And you wouldn’t want me to be wicked. We will be such good, good friends always. Good-bye.” You see, it never occurred to her that Winthrop’s straining arms, his quickening heart-throbs, and the words of his eyes, might be only the manifestation of a quite temporal passion. She judged him by herself, and all loves by that which her father and mother had borne for each other. There were still things in this new world of hers which her eyes had not discerned. She wondered if Winthrop had understood her emotion after he had released her from his arms. For an instant, she hoped that he had. Then she clasped her hands closely to her burning cheeks and thought that if he had she would never have the courage to face him again! She hoped and prayed that he had not guessed. Suddenly, regretfully for the pain she must cause him, she recollected Julian. She could never marry him now. She would never, never marry anyone. She would be an old maid, like Aunt India. The prospect seemed rather pleasing than otherwise. With such a precious love in her heart she could never be quite lonely, no matter if she lived to be very, very old! She wondered if Aunt India had ever loved. And just then Phœbe’s voice called her from below and she went to the door and answered. She bathed her hot cheeks and wet eyes in the chill water, and with a long look about the big square room, which seemed now to have taken on the sacredness of a temple of confession, she went down-stairs. Winthrop had not guessed. She knew that at once when she saw him. He was eagerly anxious about her, and blamed himself for her fright. “I ought never to have let you try such foolishness,” he said, savagely. “You might have hurt yourself badly.” “Oh,” laughed Holly, “but you were there to catch me!” There was a caressing note in her voice that thrilled him with longing to live over again that brief moment in the parlor. But he only answered, and awkwardly enough, since his nerves were taut: “Then please see that I’m there before you try it again.”