manner, her impulsive gestures. Yes, she was Helen; warm-breathing,
flushed with joy of her own loveliness, her perfect womanhood--the girl I
adored, the loveliest thing alive!

I seized the hands she gave me; I drew her nearer.

"Helen," I cried, "you are indeed the most beautiful being God ever
created, and--last June you kissed me--"

"I didn't!"

"--Or I kissed you, which is the same thing--after the Commencement
reception, by the maple trees, in front of the chapter house; and----"

"And thence in an east-southeasterly direction; with all the hereditaments
and appurtenances--Oh, you funny Old Preciseness!"

"And now I'm going to----" The words were brave, but there was something
in the pose and poise of her--the wonder of her beauty, the majesty--
perhaps the slightest withdrawal, the start of surprise--that awed me.
Lamely enough the sentence ended:

"Helen, kiss me!" I begged, hoarsely.

For just a fraction of a second she hesitated. Then the merriment of
coquetry again sparkled in her smile.

"Ah, but I'm afraid--" she mocked.

Her eyes danced with mischief as she drew away from me.