John’s days were very full, and the estrangement with Phillip troubled him less than it would have had he had more time to give it thought. To David it seemed that John had put the matter entirely from his mind; he never mentioned Phillip any more, and David’s infrequent allusions to that youth were patently unwelcome. Yet John was not so indifferent as he appeared. Recollection of the incident at the boarding-house made his cheeks burn and his fists clench. Yet his real sentiment toward Phillip was one of irritation rather than anger. Could he have taken Phillip by the collar and shaken an explanation out of him he would have been quite satisfied and willing to clasp hands. His liking for the other remained, but was for the while drowned by the exasperation he felt.

He missed Phillip’s companionship for more reasons than one, of which not the least was that without it he seemed entirely cut off from Elaine and Margaret. Several times the temptation to write to Margaret became almost irresistible. He did not yield to it, however, for it seemed to him that the agreement between them tacitly forbade it. His only intelligence of Elaine reached him through Corliss, from whom he received several letters during the winter term. But the news was scanty and unsatisfactory. Mrs. Ryerson’s health, Corliss wrote once, was causing uneasiness; she did not leave her room any more, and while she might live for a year or even two, she was practically helpless. John was glad to learn by a subsequent letter from the same source that Markham had moved over to Elaine. The overseer was a man after John’s heart, and the knowledge that he was at Margaret’s side comforted him. John wondered if Phillip was aware of his mother’s condition, and lost sight of some of his animosity in the sympathy he felt for him.

But Phillip knew less than John. Margaret had written that their mother was not so well and that she stayed in her room most of the time, but news was conveyed in such a way as to cause Phillip little alarm. This had been at Mrs. Ryerson’s own request. There was nothing to gain, she declared, by worrying Phil. And Margaret, realizing the truth of this, concurred.

In all of her letters to Phillip Margaret pleaded with him to resume his friendship with John. The fault, she declared again and again, was all hers. John North had only done what she had asked him to, and Phillip was only hurting her, since she blamed herself for the unfortunate affair. She knew nothing of the meeting between John and Phillip, for the latter had made no mention of it in his letters home. She only knew that Phillip had left Elaine resolute to have nothing further to do with John, and that since then he had never mentioned his name. At first Phillip had answered her argument with others, but later he gave them no heed.

Margaret in those days wondered miserably what John thought of her. Whether he knew the cause of Phillip’s anger; and if he did, whether he believed she was keeping silent and selfishly leaving him to shoulder the entire blame.

At four o’clock on the afternoon succeeding Everett’s tea Phillip climbed the Kingsford’s steps and rang the bell. It had been snowing all night and all day, and the big drawing-room was dark and depressing, a condition that chimed admirably with Phillip’s mood. After the maid left him he sat a long, long while in front of a smouldering fire of cannel-coal and strove to think of all the grand and dignified and utterly mean remarks that had occurred to him the night before. But, for some reason, his wrath had burned out and he only felt sorrowful and depressed and lonely. When Betty appeared, he told himself dejectedly, he would give her the photograph, say farewell and go away forever. He looked out through the great high windows into the whirling storm and thought what an ideal day it was on which to go away forever! Then it occurred to him suddenly that “forever” was a most dispiriting word and that he was very miserable.

Upstairs in her room, Betty, who since three o’clock had been anxiously watching for Phillip from her front window, was now impatiently watching the hands of the little Dresden clock on the mantel. She had made up her mind that Phillip should wait half an hour. She thought the suspense would have a salutary effect on his temper, and it was a subdued and chastened Phillip that she wanted to confront, and not the rather dangerous-looking Phillip she had parted from in Harvard Square the day before. She had made up her mind to keep him waiting thirty minutes. But it had not occurred to her that she would also keep herself waiting, and now thirty minutes seemed a terribly long time. When ten minutes had dragged past she agreed on a compromise; twenty-five minutes would do quite as well as thirty. Five minutes later she compromised again; twenty minutes was really all that was necessary. Then she looked herself over very carefully in the long mirror and descended the stairs, entering the drawing-room just seventeen minutes after Phillip’s arrival.

“How do you do?” she asked brightly, smilingly. “Isn’t this storm awful?”

Phillip, who had risen to meet her with his countenance properly severe, was so astounded at this change of front that the effectiveness of his expression was somewhat marred. He bowed and muttered incoherently. Betty sank into a chair some ten feet away and arranged her skirts to her pleasure before she continued the conversation.

“Did you have trouble getting into town?” she asked.

“No—yes, I believe so,” Phillip replied vaguely. He was still standing. Now he placed a hand within his coat and drew forth a package.

“Here is the picture,” he announced somberly.

“The picture?” said Betty. “Oh, thank you. Won’t you sit down?”

Phillip stared. Betty continued to smile with bright and amiable politeness. Phillip sat down. As she had made no move toward taking the photograph, he laid it irresolutely on a table at his elbow and then stared at his shoes with such apparent interest that Betty was moved to silent laughter.

“It is still snowing, I think,” she said. As she sat with her back to the windows her uncertainty may have been excusable. Phillip looked out into the blinding storm and answered gravely in the affirmative. He had an uncomfortable feeling that Betty was secretly laughing at him, and his anger, which had died overnight, began to show signs of returning animation. He arose and secured the top button of his coat to the second buttonhole.

“I will say good-evening,” he announced.

“But it’s only afternoon!” exclaimed Betty, just as though she had not a dozen times before corrected Phillip for that Southernism.

“Good-afternoon,” he amended with much dignity.

“Oh,” said Betty, “must you go so soon? Then you are not going to tell me, after all!” she added regretfully. Phillip struggled for a moment with curiosity. Then he yielded.

“Tell you what?”

“What you were going to tell me yesterday. I believe you’ve forgotten!”

“No, but—but——”

“Then you’ll tell me?” she asked eagerly. Phillip glanced behind him. The chair was still there. He sat down.

“If you want to know,” he muttered.

“Of course I do. I want to know why you have not been in to see us for so long.”

“Is—has it seemed long?” he asked hopefully.

Betty nodded earnestly.

“Weeks!”

“It’s been two months!” he protested.

“Really? How times flies, doesn’t it?” said Betty, wonderingly. Phillip wished he had resisted temptation; the storm looked so much kinder than Betty.

“It hasn’t fly—flown for me,” he muttered.

“But then you’ve had examinations,” said Betty sympathetically. “I’m sure they must be dreadfully slow things.”

“Yes.” There followed silence.

“Well?” prompted Betty. “I’m waiting, you know.”

“I don’t think——” he began. Then his anger stirred once more and he faced her accusingly. “You don’t want to know,” he charged. “You—you’re just making fun of me! You’re laughing at me all the time! You’re—you’re cruel!”

“Phil!”

His anger died instantly. His face lighted.

“I beg your pardon, Betty, but—but—I don’t know what to think!”

“Think of what you are going to tell me,” advised Betty. “I don’t believe you have any excuse, after all; you’re simply trying to gain time to invent one.”

“I’m not, Betty! Only—somehow, it doesn’t seem a very good excuse when it comes to explaining,” faltered Phillip. “And I daresay you’ll be frightfully bored.” Betty shook her head. “You won’t? Well——”

So he told her the whole story just as we know it, dear, long-suffering reader, and she listened very attentively and looked bewitchingly sympathetic with the firelight on her face; and Phillip warmed to his narrative and did it full justice. Yet when he had finished Betty’s face became terribly severe.

“And pray what right,” she demanded, “had you to think we wouldn’t make you just as welcome even if you were poor? A fine opinion you must have formed of us! When, I should like to know, has any of us given you the right to—to think such things about us?”

“Never,” he replied earnestly. “I was all wrong, Betty; I see that now. But, don’t you see, Betty, at first—I didn’t know! It was so sudden and unexpected. I’d never been poor before. It was so kind of strange; and some people do care, you know!”

“They’re not nice people, then,” answered Betty stoutly. “Anyhow, you might have known that I—— And after I had sent you that photograph, Phil!”

“I’m mighty sorry, Betty,” he said contritely. “I won’t do it again—ever!”

“I should hope not!” After a silence she said: “I’m sorry you didn’t like it—the photograph, I mean.”

“Like it! I did like it, Betty! I—I worshiped it!”

“Oh!”

“I—I carried it in my pocket for days and days!”

“Then I don’t see why—you want to bring it back.”

Phillip gasped and stared in amazement.

“I don’t!” he finally ejaculated.

“Oh!” said Betty again.

“You told me to!” he cried. Betty looked scornful.

“What if I did? I didn’t suppose you were going to do it!”

“Betty!”

“It only shows that you don’t want to keep it!”

“But—Betty——”

“And you said that there were too many in circulation!”

“Well—and there are, too!”

“They’re not!”

“There are!” he repeated doggedly.

“Only—one!”

“One! You said—you said——” Betty nodded unembarrassedly.

“Yes; but that was just—just because you’d been mean to me.”

“Then they’re not, Betty? You didn’t send them all round everywhere at Christmas?”

“I sent only one,” answered Betty, “and that one to a—a person who doesn’t care for it. And I had it taken specially, and went to whole heaps of bother, and there were seven negatives, and I sat three times and—and it was all wasted!” Betty’s voice was vibrant with grief. “Please, will you hand it to me?” she asked with a supreme effort to be brave. She looked over the table; the package was gone. Phillip’s fingers were tremblingly buttoning up his coat.

“No,” answered he; “I won’t, Betty!” He had covered the intervening space and was kneeling at her side, her hands grasped tightly. “It’s mine; I’m going to keep it forever! And, oh, Betty, you do care, don’t you?”

“Please——” whispered Betty in dismay.

“And you don’t mind if I’m poor? And you’ll marry me, Betty?”

He was covering her hands with kisses.

“I’m going to study very hard, dear,” he went on breathlessly, exultantly. “And I’ll make money—lots of it—somehow, you know! You will marry me, Betty? Dear, darling Betty!”

“Perhaps—some day,” murmured Betty.

“Betty! And—Betty, dear!—please say that you love me!”

But Betty jumped from the chair before he could stop her and turned to him with very crimson cheeks and shining eyes.

“Phil,” she said, “will you do what I ask you?”

“Anything!” He strove to reach her, but she kept the chair between.

“Very well,” she answered. “Sit here.” She pointed imperiously to the chair and laughed nervously.

“But——”

“Oh, very well, then!”

Phillip tumbled into the seat.

“Now,” continued Betty, “you must promise to do as I say.”

“Yes, Betty dear,” he murmured, reaching vainly for her hand. She took up her place behind him, leaning over the chair-back.

“You must close your eyes and—and no matter what happens you mustn’t open them until I say you may. Will you promise?”

“Y-yes,” answered Phillip. He closed his eyes.

“Now fold your hands.” He obeyed with a sigh.

“Are your eyes closed?”

“Yes.”

“Tight?”

“Tight!”

“Well——” She looked about her. The room was dim save for the gleam of the little flames, and silent save for the beating of her heart and Phillip’s. Outside the windows the snow was banked high and the swirling flakes still fell with a queer little subdued rustle against the panes. She leaned over the chair and put her head close to his.

“Phil!”

“Yes, Betty?”

“I’m sorry I was mean,” she whispered. Then, “Remember your hands!”

He refolded them with a sigh.

“Are your eyes closed tight, Phil?”

“Yes.”

“Honest?”

“Honest!”

“Phil!”

“Yes, Betty—dear Betty!”

“I do love you, Phil! Oh, your eyes, Phil!”

“Betty, I can’t——”

“You promised,” she whispered.

“Oh!” he groaned.

“Are they closed now?”

“Yes, Betty.”

“Very, very tight? Tighter than ever?”

“Yes; awfully tight, Betty!”

“Well——!” She gathered her skirts together in one hand and measured the distance to the door. Then Phillip, his eyes “very, very tight; tighter than ever,” felt a warm breath on his cheek, inhaled a faint odour of violets, and then—and then felt lips trembling against his own, lightly, fleetingly, as though the cool, moist, fragrant petals of a rose had been drawn across his mouth.

For one delicious, awe-filled moment he sat silent, blind, and his heart ceased beating. Then promises were all forgotten. He opened his eyes. He sprang to his feet with outstretched arms.

“Betty!” he cried.

Betty had flown.

He stared in bewilderment, then dashed to the door. In the darkness at the top of the broad stairs he thought he caught the disappearing flutter of a white skirt.

“Betty!” he cried imploringly.

There was a moment of silence. Then from above him came a low whisper:

“Good-night, Phil!”

“Betty! Come down!”

“Good-night!” said the whisper.

“Betty! I’m coming up!”

The whisper was alarmed.

“If you dare!” it protested.

Phillip stood irresolute, one foot on the first step of the stairway that led to Heaven.

“You mustn’t, Phil,” repeated the whisper. “Good-night!”

“Betty!” he cried again.

“Good-night!” Angels, it seems, are not always merciful.

“Well, then when, Betty?”

“Sunday?” asked the whisper.

“Oh!” he protested. “Two days!”

“Good-night, Phil!”

He sighed deeply.

“Good-night, Betty.”

Then,

“Betty!”

“Yes?”

“I love you, Betty!”

There was silence in Heaven for a moment. Then a railing creaked, and,

“Phil!”

“What, Betty?”

“I’m throwing you one!”

“Betty!”

“Good-night, Phil!”

“Good-night, Betty! God bless you, dear, dear Betty!”

Outside on the steps a snowflake settled softly on Phillip’s mouth. He gasped and plunged exultantly into the storm.

It was glorious weather!