George said: “It would matter to me--a lot.” He glanced at her, but she was looking after Angela and David. He asked: “Wouldn't it matter to you?” She flushed a little; answered, with her eyes still averted towards the children, “Why--why, of course I should mind. I mean--” But there are meanings for which it is difficult to find clothes in which they may decently take the air; and here the wardrobe of Mary's mind stood wanting. George enticed. “Do you mean you would be sorry not to--not to--” He also found his wardrobe deficient. Then Mary sent out her meaning, risking its decency. “Why, yes, I would be sorry not to see you again; why should I mind saying so? I have liked meeting you.” And, becoming timid at its appearance, she hurried after it a cloak that would utterly disguise it. “I meet so few people,” she said. But George was satisfied; she had said she would mind--nay, even though she had not spoken it, her manner assured him that indeed she would regret not again meeting him. It was a thought to hug, a memory to spur his energies when they flagged over his studies; it was a brush to paint his world in lively colours. Nor, as the future occurred, need either have had apprehension that the children would tell their mother and so set up an insurmountable barrier between them. A previous experience had warned Angela that it were wise to keep from her mother joys that were out of the ordinary run of events. Returning homeward that day, a little in advance of Mary, she therefore addressed her brother upon the matter. “Davie, I hope that man will come to-morrow.” “I hope it, too.” “We won't tell mother, Davie.” “Why?” “Because mother'll say No.” “Why?” “Because she _always_ says No, stupid.” “Why?” “Oh, Davie, you _are_ stupid! I don't know why; I only _know_. Don't you remember that lady that used to talk to Miss Humf'ay and play with us? Well, when we told mother, mother said No, didn't she? and the lady played with those abom'able red-dress children that make faces instead.” “Will he play with the abom'able red-dress children that make faces if we tell mother?” “Of _course_ he will.” “Why?” “They always _do_, stupid.” “Why?” Angela ran back. “Oh, Miss Humf'ay, Davie is so _irrating!_ He will say _Why_ ....” There is a lesson for parents in that conversation, I suspect. II. Leaning from our bridge we may content ourselves with a hurried shot at George, laboriously toiling at his books, sedulously attending his classes, with his Mary spending glorious Saturday mornings that, as they brought him nearer to knowledge of her, sent him from her yet more fevered; and, straining towards another point, we will focus for an instant upon Margaret his cousin, and Bill Wyvern, her adored.