"You have not known me long enough to like me," said Lucina, in a very small, sweet voice, still keeping her face averted. "I guess time don't count much in anything like this," said Jerome. "Well," said Lucina, with a soft, long breath, "I cannot see why your liking me should hinder you from coming." "I guess you're right; it shouldn't if you want me to come." "Why did you ever think it should?" Lucina flashed her blue eyes around at him a second, then looked away again. "I was afraid if--I saw you too often I should want to marry you so much that I would want nothing else, not even to help other people," said Jerome. "Why need you think about marrying? Can't you come to see me like a friend? Can't we be happy so?" asked Lucina, with a kind of wistful petulance. "I needn't think about it, and we can--" "I don't want to think about marrying yet," said Lucina; "I don't know as I shall ever marry. I don't see why you should think so much about that." "I don't," said Jerome; "I shall never marry." "You will, some time," Lucina said, softly. "No; I never shall." Lucina turned. "I must go in," said she. Her hand and Jerome's found each other, with seemingly no volition of their own. "I am glad you didn't come because you didn't like me," Lucina said, softly; "and we can be friends and no need of thinking of that other." "Yes," Jerome said, all of a tremble under her touch; "and--you won't feel offended because I told you?" "No, only I can't see why you stayed away for that." Chapter XXVIII The next afternoon Jerome went to Miss Camilla's tea-party. Sitting in the arbor, whose interior was all tremulous and vibrant with green lights and shadows, as with a shifting water-play, sipping tea from delicate china, eating custards and the delectable plum-cake, he tasted again one of the few sweet savors of his childhood. Jerome, in the arbor with three happy young people, taking for the first time since his childhood a holiday on a work-day, seemed to comprehend the first notes of that great harmony of life which proves by the laws of sequence the last. The premonition of some final blessedness, to survive all renunciation and sacrifice, was upon him. He felt raised above the earth with happiness. Jerome seemed like another person to his companions. The wine of youth and certainty of joy stirred all the light within him to brilliancy. He had naturally a quicker, readier tongue than Lawrence Prescott, now he gave it rein. He could command himself, when he chose and did not consider that it savored of affectation, to a grace of courtesy beyond all provincial tradition. In his manners he was not one whit behind even Lawrence Prescott, with his college and city training, and in face and form and bearing he was much his superior. Lawrence regarded him with growing respect and admiration, Elmira with wonder.