"He's mine!" cried a pretty black-eyed girl with a cloud of bobbed hair and flaming cheeks. Her slender shoulders were bare; her round white arms waved in excited, graceful gestures; her corn-colored frock was a gauzy mist. She clutched Hugh's arm. "He's mine," she repeated shrilly. "He's going to dance with me." Hugh's cheeks burned a deeper scarlet. "My clothes," he muttered, hesitating. "Your clothes! My dear, you look sweet. Take off your cap and dance with me." Hugh snatched off his cap, his mind reeling with shame, but he had no time to think. The girl pulled him through the crowd to a clear floor. Almost mechanically, Hugh put his arm around her and began to dance. He _could_ dance, and the girl had sense enough not to talk. She floated in his arm, her slender body close to his. When the music ceased, she clapped her little hands excitedly and told Hugh that he danced "won-der-ful-ly." After the third encore she led him to a dark corner in the hall. "You're sweet, honey," she said softly. She turned her small, glowing face up to his. "Kiss me," she commanded. Dazed, Hugh gathered her into his arms and kissed her little red mouth. She clung to him for a minute and then pushed him gently away. "Good night, honey," she whispered. "Good night." Hugh's voice broke huskily. He turned and walked rapidly down the hall, upon the veranda, and down the steps. His classmates were waiting for him. They rushed up to him, demanding that he tell them what had happened. He told them most of it, especially about the dance; but he neglected to mention the kiss. Shyness overcame any desire that he had to strut. Besides, there was something about that kiss that made it impossible for him to tell any one, even Carl. When he went to bed that night, he did not think once about the coming football game. Before his eyes floated the girl in the corn-colored frock. He wished he knew her name.... Closer and closer she came to him. He could feel her cool arms around his neck. "What a wonderful, wonderful girl! Sweeter than Helen--lots sweeter.... She's like the night--and moonlight.... Like moonlight and--" The music of the "Indian Serenade" began to thrill through his mind: "I arise from dreams of thee In the first sweet sleep of night.... Oh, she's sweet, sweet--like music and moonlight...." He fell asleep, repeating "music and moonlight" over and over again--"music and moonlight...." * * * * * The morning of the "big game" proved ideal, crisp and cold, crystal clear. Indian summer was near its close, but there was still something of its dreamy wonder in the air, and the hills still flamed with glorious autumn foliage. The purples, the mauves, the scarlets, the burnt oranges were a little dimmed, a little less brilliant--the leaves were rustling dryly now--but there was beauty in dying autumn, its splendor slowly fading, as there was in its first startling burst of color.