hear the great clock out in the kitchen tick. Sylvia waited, her very
soul straining, although shrinking at the same time, to hear.

"I've been thinking lately," said Richard again, "that--maybe--it
would be wise for--us both to--make some different arrangement."

Sylvia bent her head low. Richard paused for the second time. "I have
always meant--" he began again, but just then the clock in the
kitchen struck the first stroke of ten. Richard caught his breath and
arose quickly. Never in his long courtship had he remained as late as
that at Sylvia Crane's. It was as if a life-long habit struck as well
as the clock, and decided his times for him.

"I must be going," said he, speaking against the bell notes. Sylvia
arose without a word of dissent, but Richard spoke as if she had
remonstrated.

"I'll come again next Sunday night," said he, apologetically.

Sylvia followed him to the door. They bade each other good-night
decorously, with never a parting kiss, as they had done for years.
Richard went out of sight down the white gleaming road, and she went
in and to bed, with her heart in a great tumult of expectation and
joyful fear.

She had tried to wait calmly for Sunday night. She had done her neat
household tasks as usual, her face and outward demeanor were sweetly
unruffled, but her thoughts seemed shivering with rainbows that
constantly dazzled her with sweet shocks when her eyes met them. Her
feet seemed constantly flying before her into the future, and she