This was in the first week of his visit. It was early evening and he lounged contentedly among cushions at the foot of the steps leading up to the parsonage veranda—an “improvement” that had followed close upon Mr. Sage’s windfall. Jane sat on an upper step, her back against the railing, her legs stretched out before her in graceful abandon. The porch light behind cast its quite proper glow down upon the tranquil picture; it fell upon the crown of Jane’s dark, wavy hair, scantily touching with shadowy softness the partly lowered face which, with seeming indifference, she kept turned away from him. She was looking pensively down the dim-lit, cottage-lined street that cut through what once had been the barren tract known as Sharp’s Field. Oliver had fastened a sort of proprietory claim upon her as soon as he arrived in town. He took it for granted that old conditions had not been altered by the lapse of years nor by the transformations of nature; it did not occur to him that their relationship could or should be governed by a new set of laws. And suddenly, on this quiet June evening, came the shock that put an end to the old order of things: the astonishing realization that Jane was old enough to be married! She was no longer a simple playmate. She was old enough to be somebody’s wife—aye, more than that, she was old enough to be the mother of children! He looked up at her out of the corner of his eye, as if at some strange creature that baffled his understanding. A woman! Jane Sage a woman! Yes, there was the woman’s look in her thoughtful eyes, the woman’s mold of chin and cheek and temple, the graceful curves of a woman’s body, the round throat and the firm, shapely breast of glorious womanhood. A queer little thrill ran over him—the thrill of discovery. This was succeeded by a smarting sense of mortification which found expression in an apologetic murmur: “And I’ve been behaving right along just as if you were still a blooming infant.” “Instead of a withering old maid,” she remarked, affecting a lugubrious sigh. “Oh, I say, you—why, hang it all, Jane, if you turn out to be an old maid I’ll—I swear I’ll not believe there’s a God or anything. It would be monstrous—inhuman.” “Sometimes we can’t help it,” said she. “It’s darned hard for me to think of you as a grown woman, but it’s even harder to conceive of you as an old maid.” “You’re getting on in years yourself, old boy,” said she tauntingly. “Aren’t you afraid of becoming a crusty old bachelor?” He did not answer. Apparently he had not heard her. He was deep in thought. After a long silence he spoke. “What sort of a chap is Lansing, Jane?” She started, and for a moment her eyes were fixed intently on his half-averted face. There was an odd, startled expression in them. “He is very nice,” she answered.