“Betty! And――Betty, dear!――please say that you love me!” But Betty jumped from the chair before he could stop her and turned to him with very crimson cheeks and shining eyes. “Phil,” she said, “will you do what I ask you?” “Anything!” He strove to reach her, but she kept the chair between. “Very well,” she answered. “Sit here.” She pointed imperiously to the chair and laughed nervously. “But――――” “Oh, very well, then!” Phillip tumbled into the seat. “Now,” continued Betty, “you must promise to do as I say.” “Yes, Betty dear,” he murmured, reaching vainly for her hand. She took up her place behind him, leaning over the chair-back. “You must close your eyes and――and no matter what happens you mustn’t open them until I say you may. Will you promise?” “Y-yes,” answered Phillip. He closed his eyes. “Now fold your hands.” He obeyed with a sigh. “Are your eyes closed?” “Yes.” “Tight?” “Tight!” “Well――――” She looked about her. The room was dim save for the gleam of the little flames, and silent save for the beating of her heart and Phillip’s. Outside the windows the snow was banked high and the swirling flakes still fell with a queer little subdued rustle against the panes. She leaned over the chair and put her head close to his. “Phil!” “Yes, Betty?” “I’m sorry I was mean,” she whispered. Then, “Remember your hands!” He refolded them with a sigh. “Are your eyes closed tight, Phil?” “Yes.” “Honest?” “Honest!” “Phil!” “Yes, Betty――_dear_ Betty!” “I do love you, Phil! Oh, your eyes, Phil!” “Betty, I can’t――――” “You promised,” she whispered. “Oh!” he groaned. “Are they closed now?” “Yes, Betty.” “Very, very tight? Tighter than ever?” “Yes; awfully tight, Betty!” “Well――――!” She gathered her skirts together in one hand and measured the distance to the door. Then Phillip, his eyes “very, very tight; tighter than ever,” felt a warm breath on his cheek, inhaled a faint odour of violets, and then――and then felt lips trembling against his own, lightly, fleetingly, as though the cool, moist, fragrant petals of a rose had been drawn across his mouth. For one delicious, awe-filled moment he sat silent, blind, and his heart ceased beating. Then promises were all forgotten. He opened his eyes. He sprang to his feet with outstretched arms. “Betty!” he cried. Betty had flown. He stared in bewilderment, then dashed to the door. In the darkness at the top of the broad stairs he thought he caught the disappearing flutter of a white skirt. “Betty!” he cried imploringly. There was a moment of silence. Then from above him came a low whisper: “Good-night, Phil!” “Betty! Come down!” “Good-night!” said the whisper. “Betty! I’m coming up!” The whisper was alarmed. “If you dare!” it protested. Phillip stood irresolute, one foot on the first step of the stairway that led to Heaven. “You mustn’t, Phil,” repeated the whisper. “Good-night!” “Betty!” he cried again. “Good-night!” Angels, it seems, are not always merciful.