"Oh, yes, I suppose so." "I say," said Dink, seeing that he made no progress, "she's been all around--had lots of experience, hasn't she?" "Oh, she's bounded about a bit." "Still, she doesn't seem much older than you," said Dink craftily. "Sis--oh, she's a bit older." "About twenty-two, I should say," said Dink hopefully. "Twenty-four, my boy," said Tough unfeelingly. "But I say, don't give it away; she'd bite and scratch me all over the map for telling." Stover left him without daring to ask any more questions--he knew what he wanted to know. He could not go to his room, he could not face the Tennessee Shad, possessor of the trousers. He wanted to be alone--to wander over the unseen earth, to gulp in the gentle air in long, feverish breaths, to think over what she had said, to grow hot and cold at the thought of his daring, to reconstruct the world of yesterday and organize the new. He went to the back of chapel and sat down on the cool steps, under the impenetrable clouds of the night. "She's twenty-four, only twenty-four," he said to himself. "I'm sixteen, almost seventeen--that's only seven years' difference." XXII When Stover awoke the next morning it was to the light of the blushing day. He thought of the events of the night before and sprang up in horror. What had he been thinking of? He had made an ass of himself, a complete, egregious ass. What had possessed him? He looked at himself in the glass and his heart sunk at the thought of what she must be thinking. He was glad she was going. He did not want to see her again. He would never visit Tough McCarty. Thank Heaven it was daylight again and he had recovered his senses. Indignant at every one, himself most of all, he went to chapel and to recitations, profoundly thankful that he would not have to face her in the mocking light of the day. That he never could have done, never, never! As he left second recitation Tough McCarty joined him. "I say, Dink, they both wanted to be remembered to you, and here's a note from Sis." "A note?" "Here it is." Stover stood staring at a violet envelope, inscribed in large, flowing letters: "Mr. John H. Stover." Then he put it in his pocket hastily and went to his room. Luckily the Tennessee Shad was poaching in the village. He locked the door, secured the transom and drew out the note. It was sealed with a crest and perfumed with a heavenly scent. He held it in his hand a long while, convulsively, and then broke the seal with an awkward finger and read: _Dear Mr. Stover_: Just a word to thank you for being my faithful cavalier. Don't forget that you are to pay us a good, long visit this summer, and that we are to become the best of chums. Your very good _friend_, JOSEPHINE MCCARTY. P. S. Don't dare to "kick yourself about the place," whatever that may mean.