advanced the tide of feeling became too strong to be wholly repressed,
and words indicating his passion would slip into his letters in spite
of himself. She saw what was coming as truly as she saw all around her
the increasing evidences of the approach of summer, and no bird sang
with a fuller or more joyous note than did her heart at the prospect.

Graham witnessed this culminating happiness, and it would have been
well for him had he known its source. Her joyousness had seemed to him
a characteristic trait, and so it was, but he could not know how
greatly it was enhanced by a cause that would have led to very
different action on his part.

Hilland had decided that he would not write to his friend concerning
his suit until his fate was decided in one way or the other. In fact,
his letters had grown rather infrequent, not from waning friendship,
but rather because their mutual interests had drifted apart. Their
relations were too firmly established to need the aid of
correspondence, and each knew that when they met again they would
resume their old ways. In the sympathetic magnetism of personal
presence confidences would be given that they would naturally hesitate
to write out in cool blood.

Thus Graham was left to drift and philosophize at first. But his aunt
was right: he could not daily see one who so fully satisfied the
cravings of his nature and coolly consider the pros and cons. He was
one who would kindle slowly, but it would be an anthracite flame that
would burn on while life lasted.

He felt that he had no reason for discouragement, for she seemed to
grow more kind and friendly every day. This was true of her manner,