He debated the question with himself and, at last, and with some trepidation, asked Madeline's opinion of his duty in the matter. Her opinion was decisive and promptly given. Of course he must not write Helen again. “How would you like it if I corresponded with another fellow?” she asked. Candor forced him to admit that he should not like it at all. “But I want to behave decently,” he said. “She is merely a friend of mine”--oh, how short is memory!--“but we have been friends for a long time and I wouldn't want to hurt her feelings.” “No, instead you prefer to hurt mine.” “Now, dearest, be reasonable.” It was their nearest approach to a quarrel and was a very, very sad affair. The making-up was sweet, of course, but the question of further correspondence with Helen Kendall remained just where it was at the beginning. And, meanwhile, the correspondence lapsed. September came far, far too soon--came and ended. And with it ended also the stay of the Fosdicks in South Harniss. Albert and Madeline said good-by at their rendezvous by the beach. It was a sad, a tearful, but a very precious farewell. They would write each other every day, they would think of each other every minute of every day, they would live through the winter somehow and look forward to the next spring and their next meeting. “You will write--oh, ever and ever so many poems, won't you, dear?” begged Madeline. “You know how I love them. And whenever I see one of your poems in print I shall be so proud of you--of MY poet.” Albert promised to write ever and ever so many. He felt that there would be no difficulty in writing reams of poems--inspired, glorious poems. The difficulty would be in restraining himself from writing too many of them. With Madeline Fosdick as an inspiration, poetizing became as natural as breathing. Then, which was unusual for them, they spoke of the future, the dim, vague, but so happy future, when Albert was to be the nation's poet laureate and Madeline, as Mrs. Laureate, would share his glory and wear, so to speak, his second-best laurels. The disagreeable problems connected with the future they ignored, or casually dismissed with, “Never mind, dear, it will be all right by and by.” Oh, it was a wonderful afternoon, a rosy, cloudy, happy, sorrowful, bitter-sweet afternoon. And the next morning Albert, peeping beneath Z. Snow and Co.'s office window shade, saw his heart's desire step aboard the train, saw that train puff out of the station, saw for just an instant a small hand waved behind the dingy glass of the car window. His own hand waved in reply. Then the raucous voice of Mr. Price broke the silence. “Who was you flappin' your flipper at?” inquired Issachar. “Girl, I'll bet you! Never saw such a critter as you be to chase after the girls. Which one is it this time?”