There was no hint of embarrassment in Miss Deane's manner of this request. Indeed, there was a pleasant, matter-of-fact tone in her voice that to the casual hearer would have disarmed any thought of suspicion. Yet to Edith and Frank the matter seemed ominously important. They spoke their adieus pleasantly enough, but a curious spark glittered a little in the girl's eyes and the young man's face was grave as they two watched the handsome pair down the slope, and saw them enter the Adirondack canoe and glide out on the iridescent water. Suddenly Edith turned to her companion. She was very pale and the spark had become almost a blaze. "Mr. Weatherby," she said fiercely, "you and I are a pair of fools. You may not know it--perhaps even they do not know it, yet. But it is becoming very clear to me!" Frank was startled by her unnatural look and tone. As he stood regarding her, he saw her eyes suddenly flood with tears. The words did not come easily either to deny or acknowledge her conclusions. Then, very gently, as one might speak to a child, he said: "Let us not be too hasty in our judgments. Very sad mistakes have been made by being too hasty." He looked out at the little boat, now rapidly blending into the shadows of the other shore, and added--to himself, as it seemed--"I have made so little effort to be what she wished. He is so much nearer to her ideal." He turned to say something more to the girl beside him, but she had slipped away and was already halfway to the Lodge. He followed, and then for a time sat out on the veranda, smoking, and reviewing what seemed to him now the wasted years. He recalled his old ambitions. Once they had been for the sea--the Navy. Then, when he had become associated with the college paper he had foreseen in himself the editor of some great journal, with power to upset conspiracies and to unmake kings. Presently he had begun to write--he had always dabbled in that--and his fellow-students had hailed him not only as their leader in athletic but literary pursuits. As editor-in-chief of the college paper and valedictorian of his class, he had left them at last, followed by prophecies of a career in the world of letters. Well, that was more than two years ago, and he had never picked up his pen since that day. There had been so many other things--so many places to go--so many pleasant people--so much to do that was easier than to sit down at a remote desk with pen and blank paper, when all the world was young and filled with gayer things. Then, presently, he had reasoned that there was no need of making the fight--there were too many at it, now. So the flower of ambition had faded as quickly as it had bloomed, and the blossoms of pleasure had been gathered with a careless hand. His meeting with Constance had been a part of the play-life of which he had grown so fond. Now that she had grown into his life he seemed about to lose her, because of the flower he had let die.