At eight forty-seven, however, there was a stir near the door. In a new fall ensemble with a hobble skirt that not one of the girls in the room had seen before, and which must have been purchased at some exclusive shop like Bostwick's in Janesville, the Belle of Brailsford Junction made her majestic entry. Cleopatra, or Helen of Troy, or Marie Antoinette could not have slain them more effectively. And, _mirabile dictu_, she was headed for Peter's table. She sat down directly across from the boy, who, despite his delight, experienced as always an empty feeling in his solar plexus, blurred vision, and cold sweat in the palms of his hands. "Whatcha reading?" asked Maxine, sticking her gum on the under surface of the library table already plastered with dried chicle in geological strata running back half a decade. "Uh ... uh ... a book on Gypsies." "The dirty things," squealed Maxine. "Ee-magine going out in the woods like that with spiders and snakes and everything. They steal and have things in their hair." "Aw, you're always spoiling everything," said Peter. "Well, if I'm spoiling everything I'll just run along," said the girl. "No, don't. Please stay," said Peter. "You can walk me home," the girl said, smiling archly, "if you don't talk about Gypsies and horrid things like that." "Can I walk you home?" Peter asked, his disappointment forgotten, his whole being an ecstasy of expectation. "Sure, you can walk me home," Maxine said. "Walking a girl home don't mean anything. I let lots of fellows walk me home." "Gee, Maxine. Gee, you're beautiful tonight." "Did you notice the hobble skirt?" "Did I notice it! How could I help but notice it?" "I just coaxed and teased till Mamma had to get it for me." "Gee, Maxine. You sure look swell in it. I guess you're the prettiest girl in Rock County." "In Rock County?" asked Maxine, regarding him through large, offended eyes from beneath her coyly-tilted hat brim. "In the world, I mean," said Peter, feeling his Adam's apple pressing uncomfortably against his high, stiff collar. "Well, it's nine o'clock," said the girl, as the Librarian began banging Webster's Dictionary on her desk,--the usual signal for closing time. They walked home together through the fall evening talking of everything except what was near their hearts. She took his arm at the crossing, and the small place where her hand rested was burning hot beneath his coat. There was a big harvest moon rising out of the elm trees from which the leaves were drifting down like large yellow petals. Their breath was white on the frosty air. Far overhead they could hear the honk of the wild geese flying south and the whistle of wings cutting the air. They stood for a long time at the gate of the Larabee home whose windows gleamed invitingly. A smell of wood-smoke came from the chimney of the fireplace. The wind stirred in the trees. "Well, ain't you going to kiss me goodnight," Maxine pouted, putting up her lips.