They talked of the tunnel and when it would be finished; and of the village people and whom they liked and whom they didn't--and why--and of Corinne, whose upturned little nose and superior, dominating airs Ruth thought were too funny for words; and of her recently announced engagement to Garry Minott, who had started for himself in business and already had a commission to build a church at Elm Crest--known to all New Jersey as Corklesville until the real-estate agencies took possession of its uplands--Jack being instrumental, with Mr. MacFarlane's help, in securing him the order; and of the dinner to be given next week at Mrs. Brent Foster's on Washington Square, to which they were both invited, thanks to Miss Felicia for Ruth's invitation, and thanks to Peter for that of Jack, who, at Peter's request, had accompanied him one afternoon to one of Mrs. Foster's receptions, where he had made so favorable an impression that he was at once added to Mrs. Foster's list of eligible young men--the same being a scarce article. They had discussed, I say, all these things and many more, in sentences, the Scribe devoutly hopes, much shorter than the one he has just written--when in a casual--oh, so casual a way--merely as a matter of form--Ruth asked him if he really must go back to Corklesville in the morning. “Yes,” answered Jack--“there is no one to take charge of the new battery but myself, and we have ten holes already filled for blasting.” “But isn't it only to put the two wires together? Daddy explained it to me.” “Yes--but at just the right moment. Half a minute too early might ruin weeks of work. We have some supports to blow out. Three charges are at their bases--everything must go off together.” “But it is such a short visit.” Some note in her voice rang through Jack's ears and down into his heart. In all their intercourse--and it had been a free and untrammelled one so far as their meetings and being together were concerned--there was invariably a barrier which he could never pass, and one that he was always afraid to scale. This time her face was toward him, the rosy light bathing her glorious hair and the round of her dimpled cheek. For an instant a half-regretful smile quivered on her lips, and then faded as if some indrawn sigh had strangled it. Jack's heart gave a bound. “Are you really sorry to have me go, Miss Ruth?” he asked, searching her eyes. “Why should I not be? Is not this better than Mrs. Hicks's, and Aunt Felicia would love to have you stay--she told me so at dinner.” “But you, Miss Ruth?” He had moved a trifle closer--so close that his eager fingers almost touched her own: “Do you want me to stay?” “Why, of course, we all want you to stay. Uncle Peter has talked of nothing else for days.” “But do you want me to stay, Miss Ruth?” She lifted her head and looked him fearlessly in the eyes: