There is a pale moon, consequently the electric street-lamps are unlighted. The setting is nowise picturesque. The street is narrow, unpaved, and fringed on either side with maples in leaf. It is late June. To right and left, are to be discerned behind the trees rows of characterless frame houses, that, for the greater part, are set well back in yards, where, here and there, are lilac bushes, rose trees, smoke trees, and silver birches, ghostly in the thin light. The moon's rays, glimmering upon the latched green blinds of the lower stories—which seem black—streak them with white.

At the end of the block, on the east side of the street, stands a house markedly different from the others. It is three stories in height, whilst they are two; the lawn, cut by a gravel path, slopes gently to the walk, and is close cropped; across the front of the house and continuing unbroken along either side to the back is a broad, covered porch with a spindled rail at its edge like a little fence. The only door is at the top of the path, in front. In a window directly above the door is a card the legend on which the moon makes clear—"Rooms to Rent." There is no fence about the place. On the south side another gravel path, narrower than the one in front and bordered with box, links the sidewalk to the porch. The main path prongs to still another set of steps on the north side. The house is white and looms big in the paleness. In a pear-tree near the south porch-steps a katydid scrapes her dreary tune; whilst, on the north steps, a vagrant cat sits in silent adoration of the night, contemplating, presumably, the joys thereof. A stillness made the more tangible by the katydid's song pervades the scene.

The deep throated bells in the library tower on the campus ring out six times—ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong. Accurately it lacks but fifteen minutes of being midnight.

Suddenly the song of the katydid ceases, and the cat, seized with panic, leaps from the north steps and vanishes beneath the grape trellis at the back. Footfalls sound on the cement, and presently a couple slant across the lawn to the porch, issuing from the shadow of the trees into the white light that floods the lawn. He is seen to be a well set up youth who looks twenty-three. It is the moon, for he is twenty. Upon his blond head is perched a slouch hat of a dirty gray color and bound with a wide black band. His trousers, turned up at the ankles, are baggy at the hips and bulge beneath the belted Norfolk jacket that he wears. His hat is pulled down rakishly in front. She is a head shorter than he, and plump. Were it high noon her face would glow ruddy. She wears a straw sailor-hat such as no sailor ever wore; a shirt waist, and a white duck skirt that flares at the hem and appears somewhat crumpled. Her steps are mincing; he slouches. Between them they carry by its two out-springing handles a small luncheon hamper. He is a junior; his walk gives the clue to his class. So is she; so does hers. At the porch he sets the basket on the lowest step and turns to her:—

Jamie. Well, we beat 'em; didn't we?

Hilda [fumbling in her finger purse]. Uh huh. Let's go up-stairs and wait.

Jamie [doubtfully]. Had we better? Won't your landlady think—— It's awful late.

Hilda [testily]. We don't pay her three dollars a week to think; besides, they'll surely be here in a minute. We couldn't have been more than a mile ahead of them. They're at the livery now, probably. [During this speech she fumbles in her purse.] Oh, dear!

Jamie [endeavoring to smother a yawn]. Wha's mat'r?

Hilda [looking up at him and making a little moÜe]. I can't find my key!

Jamie [with a quick show of interest]. You haven't lost it, have you?

Hilda [snappishly]. Well, it isn't here, anyway. Oh, oh, oh, how mad it makes me to lose things—but—I remember now; I left it on the chiffonier while we were dressing. Just to think I should have come away and left it lying there—oh, dear! [She gazes up at him appealingly.]

Jamie [a note of resignation in his voice, perhaps, which she, however, does not seem to perceive]. What's the difference? We'll wait for 'em. Minnie'll have hers, won't she? It'll be nicer waiting out here, anyway. Look at that moon! Beaut, isn't it? [He takes up the basket and moves away.]

Hilda. Where are you going?

Jamie [perhaps significantly]. 'Round on the side porch; this is too near the street.

Hilda [following him, and aside]. I can't see why they don't come. [Aloud.] Can we hear them?

Jamie. Sure! [He sets the basket beside one of the pillars of the north porch. They both sit on the top step, she with her elbows on her knees, her chin in her two hands. For a space he whistles softly between his teeth. Thereafter they converse in half-whispers.]

Jamie. They'll be along in a minute.

Hilda. I hope so. They will unless Herbert's persuaded her to go hunting for flowers by moonlight. I wouldn't be as crazy over botany as he is for all the degrees the old university gives. [She edges nearer him and, taking his hand in one of hers, draws his arm around her waist. Sighing.] Oh, dear!

Jamie [bringing his face closer to hers]. What is it—angel?

Hilda [with infinite—or, almost infinite, tenderness]. Oh, nothing. I was only thinking about the day; how happy it has been.

Jamie [tenderly]. Has it been, dear?

Hilda [her head against his shoulder]. You know it has—lovely—perfect!

Jamie. What made it?

Hilda. You know what....

Jamie No, I don't; tell me. What?

Hilda [with tender impatience]. Why you, of course, foolish—because we were together, and all that....

Jamie. Oh!

Hilda. Now, what did you say "oh" for?

Jamie. I don't know—because I'm glad you enjoyed the day, I guess.

Hilda. Did you want me to enjoy it—very much?

Jamie. Of course I did, dear; I want you to be happy all the time—— We are going to be happy always, aren't we?

Hilda. Are we?

Jamie. Aren't we?

Hilda [tenderly]. Y-e-s—— [Their lips are very close. The moon rushes behind a cloud.] There! Now you've shocked the man in the moon!

Jamie. I guess he's used to it. I wish I had a dollar for all the times he's seen that!

Hilda. And just think! There isn't a soul he can talk to about it!

Jamie. Maybe he tells Mars; you don't know.

Hilda. Oh, Jamie, you ought to take course one in astronomy! Mars and the moon are miles and miles apart!

Jamie. Are they?

Hilda [tapping his hand]. Yes, and you ought to know it.

Jamie. But I don't know as much as you do, dearie.

Hilda. That's a very pretty speech, but you do, all the same. Sometimes I think you know just a little bit more.

Jamie. Well, I don't; besides, how could I? You're working for Ph. B., and I'll only get a cheap old B. L.

Hilda. That's your own fault. You could have selected Ph. B. Herbert did.

Jamie. But Herbert knows more than I do, too. [He grins, away from her.]

Hilda. Why, Jamie, he doesn't either! He doesn't know anything but botany. I'm glad you aren't an old prosy botanist.

Jamie. Maybe I'm not a very good botanist, but I've prided myself on my taste in flowers——

Hilda. Now what makes you say that? You don't know a cowslip from a hollyhock!

Jamie. Maybe not, but I fell in love with you, didn't I?

Hilda [snuggling very close]. Dearest! [Again the modest man in the moon hides his face behind a cloud.]

Jamie [reminiscently]. Do you remember what happened a month ago to-night?

Hilda [softly]. Of course I do.

Jamie. What?

Hilda [more softly]. You proposed.

Jamie [stroking her hair]. Where?

Hilda. Why, where we were to-day—at Whitmore—in Mr. Stevens' sail-boat.

Jamie. Yes, that's so. I thought maybe you'd forgotten....

Hilda [drawing back]. Jamie! Forget! Never! Why that's the greatest thing that ever comes into a girl's life! Forget it? How could you!

Jamie. And you're just the same?

Hilda [her head against his shoulder again]. Always!

Jamie. The old lake looked somewhat different to-day, didn't it; so many of the cottages open, and such a crowd around?

Hilda. Yes, but it wasn't so nice as it was that day. I thought there were just a few too many around to-day, didn't you?

Jamie. Yes—once—or—twice——

Hilda. Why?

Jamie. Oh, because I wanted to walk on and on alone with you—just you. I wanted to talk to you as we're talking now, but I couldn't with so many folks everywhere. But I had my chance when we started for home. I looked for interference; that's why I suggested separate carriages.

Hilda [indifferently]. I knew it.

Jamie. You did? Now that shows you know more than I do. I didn't think you'd understand.

Hilda. Did you really think me as dense as all that?

Jamie. I'm afraid I did. But I shan't again. I shall tell you everything, hereafter. I find I might as well.

Hilda [earnestly]. Yes, you might, just exactly as well, for I shall know, anyway.

Jamie. I wonder if they had a good time.

Hilda. Who; Herbert and Minnie? Of course they did.

Jamie. Do you think they care anything for each other?

Hilda. Do I think so? Why, how should I know?

Jamie. You're her room-mate, aren't you?

Hilda. Oh, yes, I'm her room-mate; but I might as well not be for all she tells me about herself.

Jamie. Does she ever say anything about him?

Hilda. Not a word.

Jamie [somewhat sarcastically]. She seemed willing enough to go to the picnic; and I don't remember that she protested very violently when I suggested we go in separate carriages.

Hilda. Of course she wanted to go. Any girl likes a good time now and then on a Saturday, after working hard all the week. And Minnie does work hard. But her wanting to go doesn't prove anything. And as for the separate carriages, no girl likes to be bundled in with a crowd.

Jamie. Yes, maybe that's so. As far as I'm concerned, I'm glad she didn't protest.

Hilda. So am I. Do you think Herbert cares for her?

Jamie. Oh, I don't know. I'm not very well acquainted with him. He's always stuck in that musty old laboratory. I don't see him often. I'd never have thought of including him in the picnic, to-day, if you hadn't suggested it.

Hilda. Oh, well, there wasn't any one else; I couldn't go and leave Minnie. He'd called here two or three times, and he took her to the Forty Club once; I thought he'd do.

Jamie. He did, I guess. They hadn't much to say to each other, but maybe they had a good time all the same.

Hilda. Well, you know, she never has very much to say, nor he either, for that matter.

Jamie. I know it; all I could think of, seeing them up in front of the boat, was a pair of owls.

Hilda. Don't make fun of them, Jamie. Minnie's awfully bright. Why she's made up her mind to come back next year and take her Master's degree. Think of that!

Jamie. Is that so? I wonder if Herbert's coming too.

Hilda. I don't know. I've never heard him say. I don't believe Minnie knows either. He's a splendid student, too. [Anxiously.] I don't see why in the world they don't come. Jamie, maybe they've had an accident!

Jamie. Oh, no, they haven't. That old giraffe of theirs couldn't run away. They're walking up from the livery now, like as not, just as we did. They'll be here in a minute. Maybe we came in faster than we thought. It's a good ten miles, and with their horse it would take 'em half again as long as it did us.

Hilda. Maybe.

Jamie [irrelevantly]. Jove! What a magnificent night this is!

Hilda. Isn't it? And see how round the moon is—it's perfectly lovely.

Jamie. Dearest!

Hilda. What?

Jamie. I love you.

Hilda [pressing his arm]. Sweetheart!

Jamie. I do. [Hilda murmurs incoherently.]

Tired of scurrying, the silent moon shines down upon these two of all the world, regardless. They lapse into silence—he holding one of her hands—and gaze at the pale orb of night floating up the sky. A couple turn the corner, south of the house. The young man is tall and angular. He wears huge spectacles. His face is thin and wan, very like that of the girl beside him. Indeed, they have many physical characteristics in common. She, too, wears spectacles. Her mouth is straight, her complexion cloudy, but her eyes give evidence of an active brain behind them. He carries a luncheon basket awkwardly. At the corner they stop and he turns away as she lifts her dark cloth overskirt, and searches for her pocket. The quill, riding her curled-brimmed straw-hat at an angle of danger, sways impatiently.

Herbert [calmly]. Something appears to annoy you—have you——

Minnie [impetuously]. I've lost my key! Now isn't that aggravating! To think anything so perfectly absurd should——

Herbert. The others haven't yet arrived apparently. Possibly we might——

Minnie [with surprise]. Oh, I wouldn't have you wait for the world! It must be one o'clock! [She glances up at a window of the second floor.] No, evidently, they haven't come. There's no light. Of course Hilda would wait. Well, we'll ring and arouse the landlady; that's all.

Herbert [solicitously]. Please don't think it would annoy me to wait for your room-mate and her friend—here on the porch. It wouldn't in the least, I assure you. Besides, it always puts one out to be awakened late at night, and I dare say your landlady isn't a young person.

Minnie [smiling]. It's very good of you. She isn't young; she's quite old. Quite as old, I think, as my mother. Still I could ring, you know.

Herbert. Oh, don't, please don't; that is, don't on my account. This isn't late for me. I often study till two. Besides, to-morrow will be Sunday, and one isn't required to be about so early on Sunday.

Minnie [still smiling]. I think it would be a trifle more accurate if you had said, "This is Sunday." I am positive it is after midnight. Have you a watch?

Herbert. I am exceedingly sorry, but—but I didn't wear my watch to-day; being around the water, I thought—I thought, I might lose——

Minnie. Yes, one does have to be careful around the water. I've lost my key, I know!

Herbert. I can't tell you how sorry I am.

Minnie. And the injustice of it is that you must be the one to suffer—waiting here for Hilda.

Herbert. I shan't suffer; it will be a pleasure, believe——

Minnie. It's very good of you, of course; but you are quite sure I hadn't better ring?

Herbert. Quite. Don't do it, really. It's a lovely night, and——

Minnie. Well, we'd better sit on the porch, then, it's rather damp here, don't you think? [She moves toward the south steps.]

Herbert [following]. Yes, I believe it is rather damp. There's been a heavy dew. One can't afford to get one's feet wet with so much bronchitis about.

Minnie [sitting on the top step]. No indeed—I can't imagine where they can be! They were ahead of us all the way in. Why didn't we think to ask at the livery if——

Herbert. I'm sure it wouldn't have done any good. You see they didn't get their horse where I got ours.

Minnie. Oh, yes, to be sure. [Anxiously.] But where in the world can they be?

Herbert. I recall having read once—in some French book if I remember rightly—that one should never count upon an affianced couple being in a given place at a given time.

Minnie [smiling at him]. I'm not sure that isn't true. Still, Hilda is usually quite discreet, and I can't——

Herbert. Doubtless they'll be here in a moment; I shouldn't worry.

Minnie [suddenly]. Why, how very impolite of me. To allow you to sit there all this time holding that basket. Won't you set it on the porch? [Herbert has held the basket on his knees with his hands spread out over the cover.]

Herbert. Oh—ah—I wasn't thinking of—there, I guess that will be safe. [He sets the basket on the porch at his side.]

Minnie [leaning forward and gazing past him toward the street]. I wish they'd come! Wasn't it perfectly absurd of me to lose my key? Keeping you here! Are you quite sure you'd just as lief?

Herbert. Yes, indeed—really—I like to sit out—really, it doesn't matter, not in the least.

Minnie. Well while we are waiting we might as well go on where we left off. You were saying, on the way up from the livery—— [Hardly for a moment has Herbert taken his eyes off the girl at his side.]

Herbert [floundering]. Oh, yes, as I was saying—the—oh—ah—I was say—what was I saying, Miss——

Minnie. Have you forgotten so soon? I'm afraid the subject couldn't have held all your thought. You were telling me about the triliums.

Herbert [brightly]. Oh, yes, to be sure; of course—the triliums. I was telling you they were to be found on the plains—of all places in the world—right in the heart of the great American desert—as I'm told.

Minnie [earnestly]. Are they, indeed? Really, I never heard of such a thing. Gray says positively, I am sure, that they are to be found growing only in damp soil; near rivers, for instance, or in marshes. I've never succeeded in finding them around here anywhere except down by the Huron River or out State Street at Tamarack Swamp. And to think of them growing away out there! It is the strangest thing I ever heard of—why, there's no water for miles, is there?

Herbert. Not a drop. I'm told they've been found in the most barren places; flowering alongside cacti and sage-brush.

Minnie. You are quite sure they were the trilium, are you? It's possible of course——

Herbert. That my informant might be mistaken—yes; but I don't think he was. They look precisely the same, and they analyze the same. I've seen his specimens. The leaf is identical in form. It is a trifle larger, that is all. I've never been able to distinguish any other variation, however slight.

Minnie. Have you ever mentioned it to Professor Yarb? I'm sure——

Herbert. Yes, I told him about them, and last summer I sent him a box. He analyzed them and is as much mystified as I. He's going to write a paper on the subject for this year's meeting of the American Society.

Minnie. How I should love to see some! I wonder if it would be too much trouble for you to send me a few; just one or two. You have some pressed, doubtless. I'd like to take a hand in solving the riddle. I intend to keep up with my botany, no matter where or what I teach, finally.

Herbert [joyfully]. Do you? Do you, really?

Minnie [earnestly]. I do indeed.

Herbert. Of course I'll send you some. I'll mail you a box as soon——

Minnie [with a protesting gesture]. Oh, I wouldn't have you go to that trouble for the world. Just two or three, in an envelope. They will do quite as well. [She leans forward again and gazes past him down the street. He does not draw back as he did before.] Why in the world don't they come? I shall have to talk to Hilda, severely.

Herbert. Oh, don't be hard on her. They're in—that is to say, they think a very great deal of each other, and no doubt——

Minnie. But it is so terribly late!

Herbert. I know, but it's very pleasant—such a night—much pleasanter than it is inside. And as for sleep, why one can sleep any night, while such a moon as that, up there, one can't see often.

Minnie [quickly]. I do believe you're sentimental. I'm not a bit, so we'll never get on.

Herbert [gazing into space]. I don't think two people ought to be alike—— [He catches himself, stares at the moon and whistles without whistling. Minnie regards him curiously from the end of her eye.]

Minnie [examining the cuff of one sleeve]. What do you mean by that?

Herbert [again floundering]. I—oh—ah—I was just thinking—— We had a lecture on some such subject in psychology the other day.

Minnie [with a little sigh]. Do you enjoy psychology?

Herbert. Very much.

Minnie. Have you ever made any experiments?

Herbert. Only a few, just the more common ones. I've only had one course in it, you see.

Minnie [making a thrilling conversational leap]. I've no doubt it is all very fascinating, but I don't think I should care to marry a psychologist.

Herbert [quickly; edging nearer]. But I'm not a psychologist! I'm a botanist.

Minnie [very softly; looking away]. What do you mean—I——

Herbert [seemingly about to run madly into the face of the storm, but recovering himself]. I—oh—ah—I was just defending myself, you know. But why wouldn't you care to marry one?

Minnie [sighing again]. Oh, I don't know. I think I should be in mortal terror all the time that he was just analyzing me and every one of my motives.

Herbert [dreamily]. I don't think you would have occasion. If he loved you he couldn't——

Minnie [trying to laugh lightly and succeeding in emitting a rather tame cackle]. Love me! The idea! Who would ever love a spectacled old thing like me?

Herbert. Oh, you don't know, you know. Besides you shouldn't talk that way about yourself.

Minnie [smiling full at him]. I should tell the truth, shouldn't I?

Herbert [locking and unlocking his fingers]. But it isn't the truth.

Minnie [looking down]. Oh!

Herbert [with real courage]. That's the truth! You see the difference, don't you?

Minnie. Well, I'd like to know what I am if I'm not that. No one ever intimated before that I am anything else. My little brother has maintained it ever since he learned to talk.

Herbert. Well, you're not; you're—— [He hesitates. Thereafter he speaks quite as a locomotive puffs on a steep grade. There are two or three large, lusty puffs followed by a chain of spasmodic little puffs.]

Minnie [encouragingly]. Yes?

Herbert. You're not! You're a—oh, don't you understand? I can't keep from telling you any longer, really—I tried to in the carriage, but the road was so bumpy, I—— It seems as though I must make you understand. Please try to—I—— Don't you see! I care for you very, very much and—I wrote my people all about it and—oh, don't you see, Miss—— I mean Minnie—— I want to ask—— Will you——

Minnie [they are very close. She looks up at him feelingly]. Herbert! [The moon, aghast, dazed, thrown into a veritable spasm of lunar consternation, darts behind a cloud. But these two do not notice. The moon is forgotten—all is forgotten—the stars, the earth, the hour—even botany! Their heads are near together; thus they remain a long time, without speaking. The katydid has ceased again her dismal song, and long since the cat slunk away behind the grape-trellis to seek new fields. The intense stillness of the hour absorbs them and makes them a part of itself. After a myriad Æons a bird, somewhere, pipes a warning note, which is taken up by another bird. The couple on the further porch stir. Her head has been resting against his shoulder and for a little time she has slept. In one hand he holds a bit of angel's food, left over from the luncheon, which he from time to time has nibbled indifferently.]

Jamie [flinging the cake away and stretching]. Gee whiz!

Hilda [starting, sleepily]. Wha—what is it?

Jamie [grumblingly]. Aw, nothin', I just wish they'd come, that's all.

Hilda [plaintively]. Aren't you happy, dear?

Jamie [yawning]. Oh, I'm happy enough, I suppose, but this porch isn't exactly downy; I feel as though I'd been sitting here a month.

Hilda [sighing]. Well I can't see where they are, either—for the life of me.

Jamie [bitterly]. The darned fools!

Hilda [with horror]. Jamie!

Jamie. Well, aren't they?

Hilda [with some show of spirit]. No, they're not; and if you're so sick of sitting here, why don't you go home; I can wait. I'm not afraid.

Jamie [yawning again]. Don't be silly.

Hilda. It seems to me you're the silly one; just as though you couldn't——

Jamie [impatiently]. Well, if you think it's fun sitting here all night waiting for two soft heads that don't know enough to ache when they're in pain, you're mistaken; that's all.

Hilda [moving away from him]. I should think you'd be ashamed!

Jamie [with rising impatience]. That's right; now get mad!

Hilda. I'm not mad; so there! But—I—— [She begins to sniffle suspiciously. For some time neither speaks. The moon has waned and a strange, new light, of a sickly cast, is rising in the eastern sky. A restless bird in a tree near by pipes one nervous note; then all is silence again.]

Jamie [stretching and again yawning]. What are you crying about?

Hilda [swallowing two or three times, chokingly]. I—I—I'm not crying——

Jamie [indifferently and quite as though he felt he must say something]. You are, too; what about?

Hilda. Nothing.

Jamie. [He mutters.]

Hilda. What did you say?

Jamie [doggedly]. I didn't say anything.

Hilda [coming a little closer]. You did, too, and I want to know what it was.

Jamie [impatiently]. I didn't say anything, I tell you!

Hilda [choking up again]. That's right; now be ugly; just as though it were my fault; when you yourself suggested that we sit here.

Jamie. I didn't think it would be for all night!

Hilda [sticking to the point]. Well you did suggest it, didn't you?

Jamie [jerking his head]. Oh, I suppose so! [He sits with his elbows on his knees, his chin in his hands, and gazes at the rising light.]

Hilda. I'm just as tired as you are.

Jamie [sneeringly]. Yes, I've no doubt!

Hilda [hopelessly]. Oh, Jamie!

Jamie [with a fiendishly sarcastic grin that she doesn't see between her fingers]. And you're catching cold, too.

Hilda [recovering]. Why, I'm not either; what makes you say that?

Jamie [with withering sarcasm]. Oh, aren't you? I thought you were—by the sniffles!

Hilda [with some return of her former spirit]. You're a mean, horrid, old thing, just as mean and horrid as you can be; and I'll never speak to you again as long as I live!

Jamie [significantly]. Oh, I guess you will.

Hilda. Well, I won't.

Jamie [gleefully]. There, didn't I tell you you would?

Hilda. Well, I won't again.

Jamie. Oh, you won't, eh?

Hilda. [No answer.]

Jamie. So that's it, is it?

Hilda. [Still no answer.]

Jamie [shrugging his shoulders]. Oh, very well; just as you like! [How fortunate for the sympathetic man in the moon that he's not here to see. Now, the eastern sky shows a tinge of pale gray, shading into light violet. Here and there a bird lifts its voice; the notes are taken up and passed along as sentries pass the call for the corporal of the guard. From afar comes the jangle of metal, and the bell of an early milkman clangs. A sleepy girl issues from the back door of the two-story house across the street. A canvas-covered wagon drawn by two horses lumbers past.]

Hilda [rising and indicating the basket with dignity]. Hug!

Jamie [passing it to her]. Where you going?

Hilda [after a moment's hesitation]. I'm going to wake up the girl.

Jamie [attempting to restrain her]. Oh, don't do that; I'm very sorry——

Hilda [icily]. There's no need of your being sorry, at all.

Jamie. But I——

Hilda [with arctic frigidity]. It is quite unnecessary for us to say anything further about it, I think.

Jamie [pleading]. Won't you forgive me?

Hilda. [For answer she tosses her head.]

Jamie [in the same tone as before]. Won't you—Hilda?

Hilda. [Still no reply. She stands at his side holding the basket, not deigning even to look down at him.]

Jamie. What are you thinking, dear? Tell me!

Hilda. Oh, nothing of much consequence; only just how mean you have been and——

Jamie [interposing]. But I've asked you to——

Hilda. If I'm not mistaken I've said there is no use of our talking further about it.

Jamie [rising as she turns]. Then you won't say anything to me?

Hilda. I don't think there is anything to be said.

Jamie [with dogged resignation]. Very well, then—Hush! [From the other porch comes the sound of light footfalls.]

Hilda [without attending]. It is probably the girl. [She proceeds to the front; he follows. As they turn the corner, Minnie and Herbert turn the corner, opposite, and the couples confront each other.]

Minnie. Hilda!

Hilda. Minnie!

Minnie. Hilda, where in the world have you been?

Hilda. And I should like to know where in the world you have been?

Minnie [severely and indicating the porch behind her]. We've been sitting on that porch all night, waiting for you.

Hilda [mocking her severity and indicating the porch behind her]. And we've been sitting on that porch all night, waiting for you!

Jamie [to Hilda coldly]. Now that you have other company, I'll go. Good-bye! [He rushes down the steps.]

Hilda [running to the rail and calling after him softly]. Jamie! Jamie! Oh, Jamie! [He apparently does not hear her. Herbert stands by fumbling his hat and looking first at one girl then at the other, wonderingly. Hilda turns from the rail and gazes at Minnie who returns the gaze searchingly. Hilda bites her lower lip and looks down. Minnie leans against the casing of the front door, her hand on the knob. She anticipates a scene.]

Minnie. Good-night—Herbert!

Herbert. Good-night—Minnie! [They exchange one loving look and he is off. He proceeds in a direction opposite to that taken by Jamie.]

Minnie [regarding Hilda whose eyes are upon her and filled with surprise]. Hilda—tell me—what——

Hilda [hiding her face against the shoulder of her room-mate, who strokes her hair caressingly]. Oh, Minnie—Minnie—he's gone—it's broken——

Minnie [convulsively, her grasp upon the doorknob, tightening. The knob turns. The door swings back]. Oh! See!

Hilda [lifting her face]. Oh! [Her eyes meet Minnie's. In the latter there is a smile which she shares weakly.]

Minnie. This is too absurd! Open all night!

Hilda [trying hard not to cry]. Oh, Minnie! I don't know what——

Minnie [her arm around Hilda]. There dear. Don't cry. It will come out all right. And to think you should have broken with Jamie while Herbert and I were—— [They pass into the hallway. Minnie, by closing the door softly behind them, renders the rest unintelligible to any one who might be passing just at this instant.]

A MODERN MERCURY