brought back the school days, the vacation days, the Indian summer
days when the hills were golden and the purple haze hung over the
land--the days that were to be no more for Daren Lane.

In the distance somewhere a motor-car hummed, and came closer, louder
down the street, to slow its sound with sliding creak and jar outside
in front of the house. Lane heard laughter and voices of a party of
young people. Footsteps, heavy and light, came up the walk, and on to
the porch. Lorna was returning rather late from the motion-picture,
thought Lane, and he raised his head from the pillow, to lean toward
the open window, listening.

"Come across, kiddo," said a boy's voice, husky and low.

Lane heard a kiss--then another.

"Cheese it, you boob!"

"Gee, your gettin' snippy. Say, will you ride out to Flesher's
to-morrow night?"

"Nothing doing, I've got a date. Good night."

The hall door below opened and shut. Footsteps thumped off the porch
and out to the street. Lane heard the giggle of girls, the snap of a
car-door, the creaking of wheels, and then a low hum, dying away.

Lorna came slowly up stairs to enter her room, moving quietly. And
Lane lay on his bed, wide-eyed, staring into the blackness. "My little
sister," he whispered to himself. And the words that had meant so much