“Yes, then,” she said, catching at the word, “p’raps then it will be different—and—I mean we shall be older and know better, Johnny. And—now—we can often see one another and talk like friends—and—” She looked up to read his eyes, trembling. Something cold took Johnny by the throat, and checked his voice. “But—what—you don’t mean—that?” “Yes,” she said, though it was bitter hard. “It’ll be best—I’m sure, Johnny!” Johnny gulped, and his voice hardened. “Oh!” he said, “if you want to throw me over you might say so, in straight English!” “Oh—don’t talk like that, Johnny!” she pleaded, and laid her hand on his arm. “It’s unkind! You know it’s unkind!” “No—it’s only plain an’ honest. I don’t understand this half-and-half business—seeing each other ‘like friends’ an’ all that.” One more effort she made to hold her position—but her strength was near gone. “It’ll be better, Johnny—truly it will! You—you might meet someone you’d like better, and—” “That’s my look-out; time to talk about that when it comes. The other night you let me kiss you, and you kissed me back—told me you loved me. Now you don’t. Maybe you’ve met someone you like better.” She held out no more. Her head fell on his shoulder, and she broke into an agony of tears. “O Johnny, Johnny, that is cruel! You don’t know how cruel it is! I shall never like anybody better than you—never half so much. Don’t be unkind! I’ve not one friend in the world but you, and I do love you more than anything.” With that Johnny was ready to kick himself for a ruffian. He looked about, but nobody else was in the shadowy street. He kissed Nora, he called himself hard names, and he quieted her, though she still sobbed. And there was no more talk of mere friendship. She had tried her compromise, and had broken down. But presently Johnny ventured to ask if she foresaw any difficulty with her parents. “Father’s dead,” she said simply. “He’s been dead for years.” This was the first word of her family matters that Johnny had heard. Should he come to see her mother? The question struck her like a blow. “No—no, Johnny,” she said. “Not yet—no, you mustn’t. I can’t tell you why—I can’t really; at anyrate not now.” Then after a pause, “O Johnny, I’m in such trouble! Such trouble, Johnny!” And she wept again. But tell her trouble she would not. At anyrate not then. And in the end she left Johnny much mystified, and near as miserable as herself, because of his blind helplessness in this unrevealed affliction.