“That will be fine, Mac!” exclaimed Larry enthusiastically. “In this way neither they nor we will need to hurry.” “Disgustingly selfish creature,” said Ethel, making a face at him across the table. Jane said nothing, but her face fell into firmer lines and her cheeks took on a little colour. The dinner was cut short in order to allow Dr. Brown to get through with his list of waiting patients. “We have a few minutes, Ethel,” said Larry. “Won't you give us a little Chopin, a nocturne or two, or a bit of Grieg?” “Do, Ethel,” said Jane, “although you don't deserve it, Larry. Not a bit,” she added. “Why, what have I done?” said Larry. “For one thing,” said Jane, in a low, hurried voice, moving close to him, “you have not given me a chance to congratulate you on your medal. Where have you been all day?” The reproach in her eyes and voice stirred Larry to quick defence. “I have been awfully busy, Jane,” he said, “getting ready to go off to-morrow. I got a telegram calling me to Chicago.” “To Chicago? To-morrow?” said Jane, her eyes wide open with surprise. “And you never came to tell me--to tell us? Why, we may never see you again at all. But you don't care a bit, Larry,” she added. The bitterness in her voice was so unusual with Jane that Larry in his astonishment found himself without reply. “Excuse me, Ethel,” she said, “I must see Ann a minute.” As she hurried from the room Larry thought he caught a glint of tears in her eyes. He was immediately conscience-stricken and acutely aware that he had not treated Jane with the consideration that their long and unique friendship demanded. True, he had been busy, but he could have found time for a few minutes with her. Jane was no ordinary friend. He had not considered her and this had deeply wounded her. And to-morrow he was going away, and going away not to return. He was surprised at the quick stab of pain that came with the thought that his days in Winnipeg were over. In all likelihood his life's work would take him to Alberta. This meant that when he left Winnipeg tomorrow there would be an end to all that delightful comradeship with Jane which during the years of his long and broken college course had formed so large a part of his life, and which during the past winter had been closer and dearer than ever. Their lives would necessarily drift apart. Other friends would come in and preoccupy her mind and heart. Jane had the art of making friends and of “binding her friends to her with hooks of steel.” He had been indulging the opinion that of all her friends he stood first with her. Even if he were right, he could not expect that this would continue. And now on their last evening together, through his selfish stupidity, he had hurt her as never in all the years they had been friends together. But Jane was a sensible girl. He would make that right at once. She was the one girl he knew that he could treat with perfect frankness. Most