"I'm not sure," she said, with a nervous catch in her voice, "that I can give that." "Why not?" he asked. She did not reply directly. "I wonder what you will be like after a term at Cambridge," she said, inconsequently. "It won't change me at all," said Paul. The girl made little stabs with her umbrella at the pavement. "It will," she said. "I wonder if you'll come back the least bit the same. Oh, I know! You'll have new friends and new interests, and you'll think us all just a little cheap. You'll go away in the holidays, abroad very likely, and even our country won't seem the same to you." Paul was surprised at her vehemence, and he came to a sudden resolution. "Do you know," he said, "I'm going to take a last bike ride to-morrow round Hursley Woods and Allington, just to say good-bye. I meant to go alone, but do you think you could come too? I'd love it. We'd be able to talk, up there in the heather. Will you?" The girl slowed down still more; they were very near her home. She was so glad that he had asked her that she could hardly speak. "Yes," she said; and then, with a burst of confidence: "Do you think we ought to?" "Why not?" he queried, frowning. "Well, we'll risk it anyway. Look here, let's meet at the bottom of Coster Lane--say at eleven. Shall we? That will give us two hours, lots of time." She nodded without speaking, and put her hand on the latch. "You won't be late--Edith," he said, calling her, on the impulse, by her Christian name. She flushed in the kindly dark. "No," she said softly. How could she? she asked herself as she let herself in. It was half-past ten when Paul climbed the steps of his father's house and rang the bell. The little family had finished supper and were waiting prayers for him. "Where have you been, Paul?" questioned his mother. "It's very late, dear." "I saw Miss Thornton home, mother," said Paul. "Oh, Paul! Was no one else going her way?" "I did not think to ask," replied Paul frankly. "Dear, you ought to take care. Such a lot is expected of your father's son. Did you go in?" "No, mother." "Well, dear, go and take your boots off while Annie brings the cocoa in. And don't be long, Paul. I don't want you to miss prayers on your last Sunday." He went out, closing the door. Mrs. Kestern looked across at her husband, stretched out in his arm-chair, tired after a heavy day, and gazing into the glowing coals. "Father, I think you ought to say something to him," she said. "That girl is very attractive, and quite clever enough not to run after him too obviously." The clergyman stirred. "I don't know, dear," he said. "You know well enough we have never had any trouble of that sort with him, and Paul is not without ballast. God, Who redeemed me from all evil," he added gently, "bless the lad." (3)