"Another danger," said Jack, "is, that we may all get tired of these meetings. You see, they are not the real thing. Formerly, the evening followed the day; it was the feast after the fight. Where is now the fight? And all the dancing, courting, pretty speeches, and tender looks, meant only the fore-words of Love in earnest. Now, are we ready again for Love in earnest? Can the men once more worship the women upon whom they have gazed so long unmoved? If so, we must brave the College and face the consequences. I know of two people only who are at present so much in earnest as to brave the College. They are Christine and myself." He took the girl's hand and kissed it. "You may add one more, Jack," said Mildred. "If you go away with Christine, take me with you; for the Present is more intolerable than any possible Future." "That makes three, then. There may be more. Geoffrey and Dorothy are never tired of whispering and billing. Perhaps they, too, are strong enough to throw off the old terrors and to join us. But we shall see." "I think," said Mildred, "it might depend partly on how the case is put before them. If you made them see very clearly the miseries of their present life, and made them yearn ardently for the things which they have only just remembered, some of them might follow, at all costs. But for most the College and what it holds would prove too much." "Yet you yourself--and Christine--" "As for me, it seems as if I remember more than anybody because I think of the sorrows of the Past. I cannot tell now how I ever came to forget those sorrows. And they are now grown so dear to me, that for the very fear of losing them again, I would give up the Gift of the College and go with you. As for Christine, she has never known at all the dread which they now pretend used to fill all our minds and poisoned all our lives. How, then, should she hesitate? Besides, she loves you, Jack--and that is enough." "Quite enough," said Christine, smiling. "If you remember everything," Jack went on, gravely, "you remember, Mildred, that there was something in life besides play and society. In a corner of your father's park, for instance, there was an old gray building, with a small tower and a peal of bells. The place stood in a square enclosure, in which were an old broken cross, an ancient yew-tree, two or three head-stones, and the graves of buried villagers. You remember that place, Mildred? You and I have often played in that ground; on weekdays we have prowled about the old building and read the monuments on the walls; on Sundays we used to sit there with all the people. Do you remember?" Mildred clasped her hands. "How could I ever forget?" she cried. "How could any of us forget?" "Because Grout robbed you of your memory, my cousin. He could not rob mine." "Alas!" she lamented, "how can we ever get that back again?"