“Yes, you may,” whispered the girl, still holding the knob of the door; “but I—I’d like—first—I—before you hear anything I want you to say you know he isn’t a coward—yellow.” “What was it, a scrap?” “No, but it might have been,” said Arden. Tom looked rather puzzled. “Mr. Tom—Slade,” the girl began nervously. “Tom’s good enough.” “My brother thinks a great deal of you—you’re his hero. The boys who were on their way back to school think he’s a coward. I think he isn’t. If you think he is, I want you to promise you won’t let him know—not just yet, anyway.” She spoke quietly and very intensely. “Will you promise me that? That you’ll be loyal?” “I’m more loyal than you are,” laughed Tom. “You say you think he isn’t a coward. I _know_ he isn’t. That’s the least thing that’s worrying me. What’s all the trouble anyway?” Arden’s admiring, even thrilled, approval was plainly shown in the impulsive way in which she flung the door open. She was very winsome and graceful in the quick movement and in the momentary pause she made for the young camp assistant to pass within. Then she closed it and leaned against it. “Well, _well_,” said Tom, breezing in. His very presence seemed a stimulant to the pale boy whose face lighted with pleasure at sight of the tall, khaki-clad young fellow who strode across the room and stood near the chair contemplating his young friend with a refreshing smile. He seemed to fill the whole room and to diffuse an atmosphere of cheer and wholesomeness. “Excuse my appearance,” he said, “I’ve been trying to find a knock in that flivver; I guess we’ll have to take the knock with us, Billy.” “I’m afraid he can’t go to that camp,” said Mrs. Cowell. “We’re waiting for the doctor; I do wish he’d come.” “Well, let’s hear all about it,” said Tom. “Let me tell him, mother,” said Arden. Tom winked at Billy as if to say, “We’re in the hands of the women.” “Let me tell him because I saw it with my own eyes,” said Arden. She remained leaning against the street door and at every sound of an auto outside peered expectantly through the curtain as she talked. Tom had often seen her in the street and had known her for the new girl in town, belonging to the family that had moved to Bridgeboro from somewhere in Connecticut. Then, by reason of his interest in Wilfred, he had acquired a sort of slight bowing acquaintance with her. It occurred to him now that she was very pretty and of a high spirit which somehow set off her prettiness. “Let me tell him, mother,” she repeated. “Did you notice that little girl, Mr. Slade——” “Why don’t you call him Tom?” Wilfred asked weakly. Here, indeed, was a question. An invalid, like an autocrat, may say what he pleases. Poor Mrs. Cowell made the matter worse. “Yes, dear, call him Tom; Wilfred wants you to feel chummy with Mr. Tom—just as he does.” “Did you notice a girl in an express wagon chasing a ball?” Arden asked.