The code was put into Cicely’s hands the next day, her duties so arranged that she should have time for its study. To her chagrin she found it difficult, although her difficulty was usually in learning too fast to be secure of retention, rather than in acquiring her tasks. The third day of work on the code left her still uncertain of it when she quitted the office at four o’clock to go with Rodney Moore on a part aquatic, part walking expedition up the river in his boat, out through a lovely wooded country to a knowing little restaurant whither Beaconhite people loved to repair to dine. A letter from Nan had come to add to Cis’s depression; she set forth with a marked diminution of her usual blitheness, although this expedition with Rodney, in the height of the foliage season in October, had been anticipated by her for two weeks. When Rodney met her at Mrs. Wallace’s he instantly marked the shadow on Cis’s face; he was quick to note every change in that variable face which was rapidly becoming the goal of his feet, the image hourly before his memory. “Anything wrong, Holly-Berry? You haven’t so much of your usual effect of Christmas-all-the-year-around! I thought of that last night, Cis, that you were a sort of perpetual Merry Christmas; your joyousness was probably a birthday gift to you,” Rodney said, pulling her hand through his arm with unmistakable satisfaction. “That’s nice, Rod!” Cis cried. “I’d like to be a Merry Christmas sort of thing. No, there’s nothing wrong. I’ll tell you when we get to the place where you’re taking me, or while we’re rowing.” “Tell me exactly how there’s nothing wrong, Holly? I knew your lights were slightly dimmed. How you show your feelings!” Rod laughed with satisfaction in this proof of their intimacy, that he could instantly discern Cicely’s moods. “Caught me that time! But it’s nothing, truly. That old code bothers me; never tackled anything else that wouldn’t stay by me over night! The alphabet is ridiculous; little scriggles going one way, crossed by little scriggles going the other way--and they’d all look exactly as well, or as crazy!--reversed! I get to wondering why they don’t go the other way about, and then I can’t remember which way they _do_ go! But of course I’ll get them fastened down soon; it’s not worth bothering over, Rory, my pal.” Cis beamed on Rodney, liking his sympathy. “Rory?” queried Rodney. “Sure-ly! Rory O’Moore, don’t you know? That’s really your name; it came to me this morning while I was getting ready to go out!” Cis laughed softly. “Oh, by jiminy, Cis, I don’t care what you call me if you’ll think of me so frequently. It means I’m getting on the inside!” Rodney’s delight was unmistakable. “Are you Kathleen bawn?” Cis shook her head. “Why?” she asked, then blushed fiercely as the words of the old song came to her: “Rory O’Moore courted Kathleen bawn.” Before she was called upon to speak, just as Rodney murmured: