“Endicott,” he called, “have you seen Hallowell go toward the village within a few minutes?” “He just want, out the gate,” responded Michael pleasantly. Mr. Endicott looked up surprised. “Is that the name by which you are known?” “Endicott? Yes, sir, Michael Endicott. Was it not by your wish? I supposed they had asked you. I had no other name that I knew.” “Ah! I didn’t know,” pondered Endicott. There was silence for a moment. “Would you,—shall I—do you dislike my having it?” asked the boy delicately sensitive at once. But the man looked up with something like tenderness in his smile. “Keep it, son. I like it. I wish I had a boy like you. It is an old name and a proud one. Be worthy of it.” “I will try, sir,” said Michael, as if he were registering a vow. There was an early supper for the guests and then Michael walked through another sunset to the station with Starr. He carried a small box carefully prepared in which reposed a tiny green and blue lizard for a parting gift. She had watched the lizards scuttling away under the board sidewalks at their approach, or coming suddenly to utter stillness, changing their brilliant colors to gray like the fence boards that they might not be observed. She was wonderfully interested in them, and was charmed with her gift. The particular lizard in question was one that Michael had trained to eat crumbs from his hand, and was quite tame. The two said little as they walked along together. Each was feeling what a happy time they had spent in one another’s company. “I shall write and tell you how the lizard is,” said Starr laughing, “and you will tell me all about the funny and interesting things you are doing, won’t you?” “If—I may,” said Michael wistfully. At the station a New York acquaintance of the Endicotts’ invited them to ride in his private car which was on the side track waiting for the train to pick them up. Michael helped Starr up the steps, and carried the lizard into the car as well as the great sheaf of flowers she insisted on taking with her. There were some ladies inside who welcomed Starr effusively; and Michael, suddenly abashed, laid down the flowers, lifted his cap and withdrew. A sudden blank had come upon him. Starr was absorbed by people from another world than his. He would have no opportunity to say good-bye—and she had promised—But then of course he ought not to expect her to do that. She had been very kind to him— He was going down the steps now. An instant more and he would be on the cinders of the track. A sudden rush, a soft cry, caused him to pause on the second step of the vestibuled car. It was Starr, standing just above him, and her eyes were shining like her namesake the evening star.