Florence went to the piano. Howard stood beside her. Mrs. Elbridge went out. It was time, and she knew it. William appeared at the door. "I thought you said that your tobacco was on the table in your room. What right have you got—what cause have I ever given you to deceive me in that way?" "You said you didn’t want any of my tobacco." "You said it was on the table. Of course I don’t want it—I wouldn’t have it." "You just wanted to see where it was." "I don’t care anything about it, sir. I want you to understand that as you go along." "All right, but the can of tobacco, I remember now, is in the closet on the shelf." William went away, and the young man knew that in the morning his tobacco can would be empty. Florence played the air of a slow, old love song, and between the notes fell the soft words, her own and Howard’s; they looked into each other’s eyes, eyes so familiar to both, eyes they could no more remember first seeing than we can remember the first sky, the first star—love as old as recollection and as young as the moment. There is one thing we can always say, and Bradley said it: "I shall miss you when you are gone." "I’m not gone yet," Agnes replied. "I hope you are not getting tired of us." "Tired?" She raised her eyes and he looked into them, into the depth of their blue mystery. "No, I am having lots of fun." "Fun! Is that all?" "Isn’t that enough? That’s all I want." "But life is not all fun." "No?" She raised her eyes again. "Life is serious," he said. "The greatest joy is serious; the greatest happiness comes to the heart when the heart is solemn." "Oh, I don’t think so. I cry when I’m serious." "There is joy in a tear." "Not in mine." He did not hear the front door open. For him all the world had come in. He did not hear a step at the door. Bodney came in. Florence left off playing and turned about on the stool. Bradley arose and shook hands with him, said that he was glad to meet him, and lied. He would not at that moment have been glad to see the glory promised to the faithful. But he lied, as we all of us are compelled to lie, for to lie at times is the necessary martyrdom of the conscience. Bodney’s face was bright and his laugh was gay. "You are as merry as a serenade," said Florence. "As happy as a lark," he replied. The love-making was spoiled. Bradley said that it was time to take his leave. Bodney followed him to the door, and beneath the hall light handed him a bank note, apologizing for not having sooner returned the loan of ten dollars. "But you have given me twenty," said Bradley. "Have I? Then give the extra ten to the church." *CHAPTER XVII.* *LYING ON THE SIDEWALK.*