Again the golden negative. But her hand was at the side nearest him, where he could seize it. She started to pass its contents behind her to the other hand but he jumped and caught it. "Myrtle! Quick!" she called. Myrtle came. It was a three-handed struggle. In the midst of the contest Stella twisted and rose to her feet. Her hair brushed his face. He held her tiny hand firmly. For a moment he looked into her eyes. What was it? He could not say. Only he half let go and gave her the victory. "There," she smiled. "Now I'll give you one." He took it, laughing. What he wanted was to take her in his arms. A little while before supper his father came in and sat down, but presently took a Chicago paper and went into the dining room to read. Then his mother called them to the table, and he sat by Stella. He was intensely interested in what she did and said. If her lips moved he noted just how. When her teeth showed he thought they were lovely. A little ringlet on her forehead beckoned him like a golden finger. He felt the wonder of the poetic phrase, "the shining strands of her hair." After dinner he and Myrtle and Stella went back to the sitting room. His father stayed behind to read, his mother to wash dishes. Myrtle left the room after a bit to help her mother, and then these two were left alone. He hadn't much to say, now that they were together--he couldn't talk. Something about her beauty kept him silent. "Do you like school?" she asked after a time. She felt as if they must talk. "Only fairly well," he replied. "I'm not much interested. I think I'll quit one of these days and go to work." "What do you expect to do?" "I don't know yet--I'd like to be an artist." He confessed his ambition for the first time in his life--why, he could not have said. Stella took no note of it. "I was afraid they wouldn't let me enter second year high school, but they did," she remarked. "The superintendent at Moline had to write the superintendent here." "They're mean about those things," he cogitated. She got up and went to the bookcase to look at the books. He followed after a little. "Do you like Dickens?" she asked. He nodded his head solemnly in approval. "Pretty much," he said. "I can't like him. He's too long drawn out. I like Scott better." "I like Scott," he said. "I'll tell you a lovely book that I like." She paused, her lips parted trying to remember the name. She lifted her hand as though to pick the title out of the air. "The Fair God," she exclaimed at last. "Yes--it's fine," he approved. "I thought the scene in the old Aztec temple where they were going to sacrifice Ahwahee was so wonderful!" "Oh, yes, I liked that," she added. She pulled out "Ben Hur" and turned its leaves idly. "And this was so good." "Wonderful!"