Yet that was the only poem she heard. The title of the next one, John said as he lifted it, was, "If I should love again;" but Barbara asked a dreamy question of a very general character; he replied, then asked one in turn; they discussed--she introducing the topic--the religious duty and practicability of making all one's life and each and every part of it good poetry, and the inner and outer conditions essential thereunto; and when two strange ladies came in and promptly went out again John glanced at the mantel-clock, exclaimed his surprise at the hour, and gathering up the manuscript, rose to say his parting word. "Good-by." His hand-grasp was fervent. "Good-by," replied the maiden. "Miss Barb"--he kept her hand--"I want a word, and, honestly--I--don't know what it is! Doesn't good-by seem to you mighty weak, by itself?" "Why, that depends. It's got plenty of po-ten-ti-al-i-ty if you give it its old sig-nif-i-ca-tion." "Well, I do--every bit of it! Do you, Miss Barb--to me?" She gave such answer with her steady eyes that her questioner's mind would have lost its balance had she not smiled so lightly. "Still," he responded, "good-by is such unclaimed property that I want another word to sort o' fence it in, you know." The maiden only looked more amused than before. "I don't want it to mean too much, you understand," explained he. The hand in his grew heavier, but his grasp tightened on it. "Yet don't you think these last three days' companionship deserves a word of its own? Miss Barb, you've been--and in my memory you will be henceforth--a crystalline delight! The word's not mine, it's from one of my mother's sweetest things. Can't I say good-by, thou 'crystalline delight'?" "Why, Mr. March," said Barbara, softly pulling at her hand. "I don't particularly like the implication that I'm per-fect-ly trans-par-ent." "Now, Miss Barb! as if I--oh pshaw! Good-by." He lifted her hand. She made it very light. He held it well up, looking down on it fondly. "This," he said, "is the little friend that wanted to help me out of trouble. Good-by, little friend; I"--his lips approached it--"I love you." It flashed from his hand like a bird from the nest. "No-o!" moaned its owner. "Oh, Miss Gar--Miss Barb!" groaned John, "you've utterly misunderstood." "No"--Barbara had not yet blushed, but now she crimsoned--"I've not misunderstood you. I simply don't like that way of saying----" "I didn't mean----" "I know it, Mr. March. I know perfectly well you don't expect ever to mean anything to anybody any more; you consider it a sheer im-pos-si-bil-i-ty. That's the keystone of our friendship." John hemmed. "I wouldn't say impossibility; I'd say impracticability. It's an impracticability, Miss Barb, that's all. Why, every time I think of my dear sweet little mother----" "Oh, Mr March, that's right! She _must_ have your whole thought and care!"