They stole forth from the building and yard. And vivid to Nathan came memory of another day back in younger boyhood when he had stolen forth so from a wood,—back to a picnic ground, wondering why he was not entirely happy, why the kisses of a girl had become cloying and tasteless. Only with this difference: there was no father now to meet and flog him. Carol went ahead. They had to pick their way carefully or sink ankle-deep in mire. The town still slept but it had changed somehow. It had changed. No further word was spoken until the Cuttner gate. The girl shuddered when with a proprietary right the boy took her in his arms for the final embrace. “Oh, Natie!” she cried huskily, “you’ll never, never know!” “Know what, dear?” “I can’t tell you! You wouldn’t understand. Good-by, dear! It’s—it’s getting light and some of the neighbors might see us.” She had never remarked upon this before. “When will you be leaving, dear?” he asked when he could trust himself to speak. “On the eleven o’clock, probably.” It was a spiritless answer. “There’s no use for me waiting around—if I’m really going.” “But, Carrie! Don’t take it that way! Don’t act as if I were sending you off.” “What else are you doing, Nathan? Good night, dear. I’ve got to go in! It’s getting lighter and lighter.” “I’ll be at the station to see you off if I have to lock dad in a closet to do it!” “Your dad! I hope he’ll feel satisfied with what he’s done! He’s made a good job of it—and you!” Up the steps she crept stealthily and into the house. Though she waved him good-by at the door, the boy was miserable. But she was gone and nothing remained but for him to go also. The Forge box-shop was never notable thereafter for any untoward spiritualistic phenomena. VII It rained that morning. A steady drizzle continued to fall in the aftermath of the thunderstorm. At the breakfast table Nathan had looked his father straight in the eye and announced: “Dad, Carol Gardner’s leaving town for Ohio this morning. I’m going down to see her off!” Johnathan was angered by the way his son spoke. But he decided, after all, he could afford to be magnanimous. A boy Nat’s age ought to begin to have a few privileges. “I understand,” the father answered. And he prepared to leave for the shop as though it was quite the usual thing. So Nathan went to the depot to spend a last few minutes—wildly sweet, bitterly poignant—with the first girl he had loved with the maturing affection of a man. The clouds never dripped a more depressing, groggy rain. The station platform was a long, greasy puddle. Bobbing umbrellas were everywhere as the down train to the junction pulled in. “Well Carrie—good-by,” he said at last. “Good-by, Nathan,” she answered. “Till we meet again.” “Yes! Till we meet again!”