was young, years wouldn't make a bit of difference!"

Eleanor took this somewhat roundabout advice very well. "The only thing
in the world I want," she said, simply, "is to make him happy."

They went back to the house in silence. But that night Eleanor paused in
putting some last things into her trunk, and, going over to Maurice,
kissed his thick hair. "Maurice," she said, "are you happy?"

"You bet I am!"

"You haven't said so once to-day."

"I haven't said I'm alive," he said, grinning. "Oh, Star, won't it be
wonderful when we can go away from the whole caboodle of 'em, and just
be by ourselves?"

"That's what I want!" she said; "just to be alone with you. I wish we
could live on a desert island!..."

Down in the studio, Mr. Houghton, smoking up to the fire limit a cigar
grudgingly permitted by his wife ("It's your eighth to-day," she
reproached him), Henry Houghton, listening to his Mary's account of the
talk in the orchard, told her what he thought of her: "May you be
forgiven! Your intentions are doubtless excellent, but your truthfulness
leaves something to be desired: 'Years won't make any difference'? Mary!
Mary!"

But she defended herself: "I mean, 'years' can't kill love--the highest
love--the love that grows out of, _and then outgrows_, the senses! The