“But I do like you. Next to Madeline there is no one I like so much. But, but, you see, it is different.” “Of course it is. And it ought to be. Does her mother--do her people know of the engagement?” He hesitated momentarily. “No-o,” he admitted, “they don't yet. She and I have decided to keep it a secret from any one for the present. I want to get on a little further with my writing, you know. She is like you in that, Helen--she's awfully fond of poetry and literature.” “Especially yours, I'm sure. Tell me about your writing. How are you getting on?” So he told her and, until they stood together at the parsonage gate, Madeline's name was not again mentioned. Then Helen put out her hand. “Good morning, Albert,” she said. “I'm glad we have had this talk, ever so glad.” “By George, so am I! You're a corking friend, Helen. The chap who does marry you will be awfully lucky.” She smiled slightly. “Perhaps there won't be any such chap,” she said. “I shall always be a schoolmarm, I imagine.” “Indeed you won't,” indignantly. “I have too high an opinion of men for that.” She smiled again, seemed about to speak, and then to change her mind. An instant later she said, “I must go in now. But I shall hope to see you again before I go back to the city. And, after your secret is out and the engagement is announced, I want to write Madeline, may I?” “Of course you may. And she'll like you as much as I do.” “Will she? . . . Well, perhaps; we'll hope so.” “Certainly she will. And you won't let my treating you as--as I have make any difference in our friendship?” “No. We shall always be friends, I hope. Good-by.” She went into the house. He waited a moment, hoping she might turn again before entering, but she did not. He walked home, pondering deeply, his thoughts a curious jumble of relief and dissatisfaction. He was glad Helen had seen her duty and given him over to Madeline, but he felt a trifle piqued to think she had done it with such apparent willingness. If she had wept or scolded it would have been unpleasant but much more gratifying to his self-importance. He could not help realizing, however, that her attitude toward him was exceptionally fine. He knew well that he, if in her place, would not have behaved as she had done. No spite, no sarcasm, no taunts, no unpleasant reminders of things said only a few months before. And with all her forgiveness and forbearance and understanding there had been always that sense of greater age and wisdom; she had treated him as she might have treated a boy, younger brother, perhaps. “She IS older than I am,” he thought, “even if she really isn't. It's funny, but it's a fact.”