She paused. What was it moonlight always made her feel? Hardly hearing what she was saying, she made herself reiterate banalities about the moon. Her mind flew upward to the moon--Jim's downward to his squeaking shoes. She lived at the other end of town from Raymond Bonner's house, and the long walk was made up of endless intermittent perorations on the moon, on squeaking shoes. But the song of the shoes never ceased. Louder and louder it waxed. It crashed into the innermost fibres of her frame, completely deafened her mental processes. Never would she forget it: creak-creak-creak-creak! And the moon, usually so kind and gentle, grinned down derisively. At last, after eons, they reached the corner of her own yard. How unchanged, how natural everything looked here! Over there, across the stretch of white moonlight, sat the summerhouse, symbol of peace and every day, cloaked in its fragrant ramblers. Ramblers! A sudden remembrance darted through Missy's perturbed brain. Her poor flowers--were they still out there? She must carry them into the house with her! On the impulse, without pausing to reflect that her action might look queer, she exclaimed: “Wait a minute!” and ran fleetly across the moonlit yard. In a second she had the bouquet out of the pitcher and was back again beside him, breathless. “I left them out there,” she said. “I--I forgot them. And I didn't want to leave them out there all night.” Jim bent down and sniffed at the roses. “They smell awfully sweet, don't they?” he said. Suddenly, without premeditation, Missy extended them to him. “You may have them,” she offered. “I?” He received them awkwardly. “That's awfully sweet of you. Say, you are sweet, aren't you?” “You may have them if you want them,” she repeated. Jim, still holding the bunch awkwardly, had an inspiration. “I do want them. And now, if they're really mine, I want to do with them what I'd like most to do with them. May I?” “Why, of course.” “I'd like to give them to the girl who ought to have flowers more than any girl I know. I'd like to give them to you!” He smiled at her daringly. “Oh!” breathed Missy. How poetical he was! “But,” he stipulated, “on one condition. I demand one rose for myself. And you must put it in my buttonhole for me.” With trembling fingers Missy fixed the rose in place. They walked on up to the gate. Jim said: “In our school town the girls are all crazy for brass buttons. They make hatpins and things. If you'd like a button, I'd like to give you one--off my sleeve.” “Wouldn't it spoil your sleeve?” she asked tremulously. “Oh, I can get more”--somewhat airily. “Of course we have to do extra guard mount and things for punishment. But that's part of the game, and no fellow minds if he's giving buttons to somebody he likes.”