evening was over. The Skeptic played four sets of tennis with her--she
is an admirable player--but he beat her until he discovered that she was
growing very much annoyed--then he allowed her to win the last set by a
game. The Lad, who was watching the bout, announced it to me under his
breath with a laugh. Then the Philosopher took Rhodora through the
garden and over the place generally.

"I think you should have a shawl about your shoulders, Rhodora," said
Grandmother, when the girl and the Philosopher had returned and taken
their seats upon the steps of the porch. The twilight had fallen, and
the Gay Lady had just wrapped Grandmother in a light garment of her own.

Rhodora shrugged her shoulders. "Heavens, no!" she ejaculated. "Old
people are always fussing," she remarked, in a slightly lower tone to
the Philosopher. "Because she's frozen is no reason why I should be."

"One could almost pretend to be frozen to please her," returned the
Philosopher, in a much lower tone than Rhodora's. "She is the most
beautiful old lady I ever saw."

"Goodness, I don't see how you can see anything beautiful about old
persons," said the girl. "They give me the creeps."

The Philosopher opened his mouth--and closed it again, quite as I had
done in the morning. He looked curiously at Rhodora. By his expression I
should judge he was thinking: "After all--what's the use?"

* * * * *

The next afternoon Grandmother and Rhodora went home. When Grandmother