A second chance came to her and this time she called him. He went, but was in a semi-defiant mood. He wanted to punish her. When they met in the dark she expected him to put his arms around her. Her own hands were up to about where his shoulders should be. Instead he only took hold of one of her arms with his hand and planted a chilly kiss on her lips. If he had only asked, "Why did you?" or held her close and pleaded with her not to treat him so badly, the relationship might have lasted longer. Instead he said nothing, and she grew defiant and she went out gaily. There was a strain of reserve running between them until the party broke up and he took her home. "You must be melancholy tonight," she remarked, after they had walked two blocks in complete silence. The streets were dark, and their feet sounded hollowly on the brick pavement. "Oh, I'm feeling all right," he replied moodily. "I think it's awfully nice at the Weimers', we always have so much fun there." "Yes, lots of fun," he echoed contemptuously. "Oh, don't be so cross!" she flared. "You haven't any reason for fussing." "Haven't I?" "No, you haven't." "Well if that's the way you feel about it I suppose I haven't. I don't see it that way." "Well, it doesn't make any difference to me how you see it." "Oh, doesn't it?" "No, it doesn't." Her head was up and she was angry. "Well I'm sure then it doesn't to me." There was another silence which endured until they were almost home. "Are you coming to the sociable next Thursday?" he inquired. He was referring to a Methodist evening entertainment which, although he cared very little about it, was a convenience as it enabled him to see her and take her home. He was prompted to ask by the fear that an open rupture was impending. "No," she said. "I don't think I will." "Why not?" "I don't care to." "I think you're mean," he said reprovingly. "I don't care," she replied. "I think you're too bossy. I don't think I like you very much anyhow." His heart contracted ominously. "You can do as you please," he persisted. They reached her gate. It was his wont to kiss her in the shadow--to hold her tight for a few minutes in spite of her protests. Tonight, as they approached, he thought of doing it, but she gave him no chance. When they reached the gate she opened it quickly and slipped in. "Good-night," she called. "Good-night," he said, and then as she reached her door, "Stella!" It was open, and she slipped in. He stood in the dark, hurt, sore, oppressed. What should he do? He strolled home cudgelling his brain whether never to speak to or look at her again until she came to him, or to hunt her up and fight it all out with her. She was in the wrong, he knew that. When he went to bed he was grieving over it, and when he awoke it was with him all day.