“You can’t go any further, Mr. Glenarm,” she said, and waited as though to make sure I understood. Straight before us through the wood and beyond the school-buildings the sunset faded sullenly. The night was following fast upon the gray twilight and already the bolder planets were aflame in the sky. The path led straight ahead beneath the black boughs. “I might perhaps walk to the dormitory, or whatever you call it,” I said. “Thank you, no! I’m late and haven’t time to bother with you. It’s against the rules, you know, for us to receive visitors.” She stepped out into the path. “But I’m not a caller. I’m just a neighbor. And I owe you several calls, anyhow.” She laughed, but did not pause, and I followed a pace behind her. “I hope you don’t think for a minute that I chased a rabbit on your side of the fence just to meet you; do you, Mr. Glenarm?” “Be it far from me! I’m glad I came, though, for I liked your music immensely. I’m in earnest; I think it quite wonderful, Miss Armstrong.” She paid no heed to me. “And I hope I may promise myself the pleasure of hearing you often.” “You are positively flattering, Mr. Glenarm; but as I’m going away—” I felt my heart sink at the thought of her going away. She was the only amusing person I had met at Glenarm, and the idea of losing her gave a darker note to the bleak landscape. “That’s really too bad! And just when we were getting acquainted! And I was coming to church every Sunday to hear you play and to pray for snow, so you’d come over often to chase rabbits!” This, I thought, softened her heart. At any rate her tone changed. “I don’t play for services; they’re afraid to let me for fear I’d run comic-opera tunes into the Te Deum!” “How shocking!” “Do you know, Mr. Glenarm,”—her tone became confidential and her pace slackened,—“we call you the squire, at St. Agatha’s, and the lord of the manor, and names like that! All the girls are perfectly crazy about you. They’d be wild if they thought I talked with you, clandestinely,—is that the way you pronounce it?” “Anything you say and any way you say it satisfies me,” I replied. “That’s ever so nice of you,” she said, mockingly again. I felt foolish and guilty. She would probably get roundly scolded if the grave Sisters learned of her talks with me, and very likely I should win their hearty contempt. But I did not turn back. “I hope the reason you’re leaving isn’t—” I hesitated. “Ill conduct? Oh, yes; I’m terribly wicked, Squire Glenarm! They’re sending me off.” “But I suppose they’re awfully strict, the Sisters.” “They’re hideous,—perfectly hideous.” “Where is your home?” I demanded. “Chicago, Indianapolis, Cincinnati, perhaps?”