chair.

Dora not only opened the door, but left it open, and walked with him
across the lawn towards the stile. When they reached it there was a
little pause. He vaulted over and she quietly followed--without his
proffered assistance.

Then at last Jem spoke.

"You don't seem to care!" he said gruffly--with his new voice.

"Oh, _don't!"_ she whispered imploringly.

And they walked on beneath the murmuring trees where the yellow moonlight
stole in and out between the trunks. It was not cheerful. For when Nature
joins her sadness to the sad libretto of life she usually breaks a heart
or two. Fortunately for us we mostly act our tragedies in the wrong
scenery--the scenery that was painted for a comedy.

"I don't understand it," said the girl at length.

"I suppose it is in order to save money for Arthur."

"If I don't, go," replied Jem, "it will be a question of letting
Stagholme."

Dora knew of the ancient horror of such a necessity, handed down from one
Agar to another, like a family tradition. Moreover, women seem to respect
men who have some simple creed and hold to it simply. Are they not one of
our creeds themselves, though by seeking for rights instead of contenting