S. JONES.

"I was beginning to despair, Monty," said Miss Drew,
reproachfully, when he had come down from the height of his
exasperation and remembered that there were things of more
importance.

The light in his eyes brought the faintest tinge of red to her
cheeks, and where a moment before there had been annoyance there
was now a feeling of serenity. For a moment the silence was
fraught with purpose. Monty glanced around the room, uncertain how
to begin. It was not so easy as he had imagined.

"You are very good to see me," he said at last. "It was absolutely
necessary for me to talk to you this evening; I could not have
endured the suspense any longer. Barbara, I've spent three or four
sleepless nights on your account. Will it spoil your evening if I
tell you in plain words what you already know? It won't bother
you, will it?" he floundered.

"What do you mean, Monty?" she begged, purposely dense, and with
wonderful control of her eyes.

"I love you, Babs," he cried. "I thought you knew about it all
along or I should have told you before. That's why I haven't
slept. The fear that you may not care for me has driven me nearly
to distraction. It couldn't go on any longer. I must know to-day."

There was a gleam in his eyes that made her pose of indifference