"Well, here's the 'Pot of Basil' and 'Waly Waly'"--Val turned the pages vindictively--"and all the rest of the desperate and deserted. Now, the man that made this anthology"--she turned sharply to her cousin--"I suppose he got together all the _best_ things, didn't he?" "I suppose he thought he did." "Do you think he succeeded?" "Very fairly." "H'm! You see, when they do their best they are bound to be moaning and groaning, these poets. Now, the man that chose these things, was he a jaundiced kind of person, very sad and sorry?" "Quite the contrary. I should say he's as cheerful as a man may be who isn't a fool." Val looked at him a moment. "Then, I say it's a good thing there are women in the world." She had forgotten the third person for the moment, forgotten that Julia, too, professed to like things "blubbery." Even when she remembered, she only clapped the book to and said: "Oh, I shall be _so_ late!" "I envy you your walk." Julia tilted up her round chin, catching in her loose golden hair the sunlight that filtered through the fresh green maple leaves. "I'm going up on the Hill; you'd both of you better come." "Gracious! we'd be killed if we did." "Yes, _indeed_," agreed Val, with conviction. It would be too dreadful to have Julia tacked on to them to-day. What _was_ Ethan thinking of? "I've come back from Sunday-school to take my mother to church; but there might be time for a _little_ walk afterwards." Julia's air was charmingly wistful. "Well, come towards Plymouth Hill," said Ethan. If it was anybody else, thought Val, angrily, it would have to be called flirting. Julia, too, was undoubtedly "making eyes." Oh, it was disgraceful! "I don't believe, after all, there'll be time before dinner," Miss Otway was saying. "She knows perfectly well she's going to make time," thought Val, and then--oh, dear! oh, dear! what was becoming of her old affection for her friend? They had said "Good-bye," and walked on in silence for a few moments. She noticed with a passion of resentment that, since leaving Julia, the cloud had settled again on her cousin's face. "Since I'm going away so soon, I think I ought to say--" he began presently, and stopped. "Say what?" "That Harry Wilbur has taken me into his confidence." Val turned away her head. "First-rate fellow, Wilbur." Another pause. "Fact is, he is one in a thousand." "He's very good, but he isn't interesting." "I think he is, you know; and so did Uncle John. I believe your father would have liked--" "Do _you_ like talking like this to me?" Val demanded, darkly, "or"--with a ray of hope--"are you being a martyr?" "Something of a martyr, perhaps," he said, smiling in spite of himself. "Oh, well, that's all right, just for once." "For once?" "Yes; please don't do it again. I can admire it--_once_, but I can't be of any help. I suppose it's because of what my father told you that you said that--about--love." "What did I say?" "That it was the saddest of all."