"Austin, I have a confession to make."

"Of course, you have--I knew that from the moment I got your telegram.
Well, how bad is it?" he said, trying to make his voice sound as light as
possible. But her courage had apparently failed her, for she did not
answer, so at last he went on:

"You didn't miss me much, at first, did you? When you thought of me I
seemed a little--not much, of course, but quite an important little--out
of focus on the only horizon that your own world sees. Well, I knew that
was bound to happen, and that if you really cared for me as much as you
thought you did at the farm, it was just as well that it should--for
you'd soon find out how much your own horizon had broadened and
beautified. Don't blame yourself too much for that. I suppose the worst
confession, however, is that something occurred to make you long, just a
little, to have me with you again--just as you were glad to see me come
into the room the last day our minister called. What was it?"

"Austin! How can you guess so much?"

"Because I care so much. Go on."

"People began to make love to me," she faltered, "and at first I
did--like it. I--flirted just a little. Then--oh, Austin, don't make me
tell you!"

"I never imagined," he said grimly, "that Thomas and Mr. Jessup were
the only men who would ever look at you twice. I suppose I've got to
expect that men are going to _try_ to make love to you always--unless I