“I do like it,” he said. “It’s splendid. But I’ve done something awful—and I’ve got to tell you now you’ve given me that.” “Oh, Jeremy! something awful! What is it?” He set his jaw and, without looking at her, made his confession. “That day I went in with Miss Jones to St. Mary’s I was going to buy you a present. And I did buy you one. I went into that same shop you went to and I bought ‘Robinson Crusoe’ just like the one you bought me. When I bought it I meant it for you, of course, but when I got home I liked it so much I kept it for myself and I gave you that old bottle instead—and then I didn’t like the rotten book after all and I’ve never looked at it since your birthday.” Mary’s pleasure at being made his confidante in this way was much greater than her horror at his crime. Her bosom heaved with gratified importance. “I’ve done things like that, Jeremy,” she said. “I got six handkerchiefs for Miss Jones one Christmas, and I kept three of them because I got a terrible bad cold just at the time.” “That’s not so bad,” he said, shaking his head, “because I gave you an old thing that I’d had for years.” “No,” she interrupted; “I’ve wanted that bottle ever so long. I used to go up to your room and look at it sometimes when you were at school.” He went to the drawer and produced “Robinson Crusoe” and gave it to her. She accepted it gratefully, but said: “And now I shall have to give you back the bottle.” “Oh, no, you won’t.” “But I can’t have two presents.” “Yes, you can. I don’t want the old bottle, anyway. I never used it for anything. And now we’ll each have a book, so it won’t be like a present exactly.” She smiled with pleasure. “Oh, I’m so glad you’re not angry.” “Angry?” he repeated after her. “Yes,” she said, getting up from the bed where she had been sitting. “I thought you were when you asked me to come up here.” He looked at her puzzled. She seemed to him a new Mary whom he had never seen before. “Am I often angry?” he asked. “Not angry exactly; but I get frightened that you are going to be cross, and then I say the silliest things—not because I want to, but because I want to be clever, and then, of course, I never am.” He stood staring at her. “Am I as beastly as that?” he asked. “Oh, you’re not beastly,” she reassured him. “Never—you’re not,” forgetting her grammar in her eagerness; “but I’m afraid of you, and I’m fonder of you than anybody—lots fonder—and I always say to myself, ‘Now I’m not going to be silly _this_ time,’ and then I am. I don’t know why,” she sighed. “But I’m not nearly as silly as I seem,” she ended. No, she wasn’t. He suddenly saw that, and he also suddenly saw that he had all this time been making a great mistake. Here was a possible companion, not only possible, but living, breathing, existing. She was on her own to-night, neither fearful nor silly, meeting him on his own level, superior to him, perhaps, knowing more than he did about many things, understanding his feelings. . . .