On the same day that the Morning Glory Club was born, it happened that Will Flint met Barbara Wallace on her way to school, and he eagerly grasped the opportunity to renew a friendship which had begun at Barbara's home, in his college town, a year before she came to Manville.

"I'm mighty glad to see you, Miss Wallace," he said, with boyish enthusiasm.

"Thank you," she replied. "And may I ask how you happen to be at home at this time in the year?"

The smile on his face disappeared.

"I'll walk with you a few minutes if you don't mind, and try to explain," he said. Will tried to tell the truth and spare himself at the same time, but did neither well.

"I'm sorry, and in your senior year, too," said Barbara, when he had finished.

"Yes, that's the worst part of the whole affair. I—I don't know why I told you, Miss Wallace, but you asked me, and—you see I don't have any one to tell such things to—never did. I don't mean to be disrespectful, but father has spent his life trying to save sinners by preaching—somehow it didn't work on me; and mother, she's good, of course, but—I can't say it just the way I want to—I guess it's sympathy I need."

Barbara knew that his earnestness was genuine, but the timidity and hesitancy of the big fellow amused her.

"One can do very little without it," she said, trying to refrain from laughter, and then quickly added: "I suppose that you have already planned for the future."

"No, I haven't decided what I shall do—hardly thought of it, in fact. I shall stay at home for awhile, and then—I don't know—there's nothing I'm fitted for. I suppose that I might saw wood, or work on the roads."

"That would never do for a clergyman's son," replied Barbara.

"Would be rather funny, wouldn't it? Anyway, I've got nothing else to do at present except think about it—I guess something will turn up."

"Wouldn't it be better to find something yourself instead of waiting for it to come to you?"

"I guess you're right, Miss Wallace; but here's your school and forty kids waiting for teacher to let them in. I won't forget your question. Good-bye." Will raised his cap and walked away.

The children loved Barbara, and usually ran to meet her like a drove of stampeded animals, but on this morning, when they saw her coming accompanied by a stranger, they remained huddled on the steps of the schoolhouse.

"Who's that man?" one of the little girls asked when Barbara arrived within speaking distance.

"Mr. Flint," she replied, with her usual candour.

"Is he a real good man?" piped another. Barbara was not sure, but did not wish to say so. Without making a reply she unlocked the door and went in, followed by her flock, and was soon deep in the morning's work: trying to make the youngsters believe that the earth is round, explaining such perplexing words as pare, pear, and pair, and proving that twelve times twelve makes one hundred and forty-four,—if you do it right.

During the day the question that the little girl had asked, "Is he a real good man?" frequently came into Barbara's mind. She did not know the answer, and wondered why she thought of it at all.

Miss Wallace boarded with Mrs. Tweedie. She was a quiet little woman, but one whose appearance and personality had been, for some unexplainable reason, the cause of not a little comment among the people of Manville. Her eyes—Mrs. Tweedie thought that blue eyes lacked strength; and her hair did not please Mrs. Doctor Jones because it was neither yellow nor red. According to Mrs. Thornton's standard for feminine contours, her form was "positively dumpy;" and everybody knew that Mrs. Deacon Walton had told Mrs. Undertaker Blake, confidentially, that she "always suspicioned folks that didn't have any more to say about things and people than Miss Wallace did." Many other women were of the same opinion.

On the other hand, the men who knew her thought that she was the right sort; and those who were not acquainted wished that they were. Mr. Tweedie especially was captivated by her quiet manner, and did everything possible for her comfort; and Barbara—perhaps it was because she pitied him—showed in many ways her appreciation of his thoughtfulness. Thomas, the "Tweedie Indian," as he was sometimes appropriately called, declared that "She's the best teacher in town, but when she licks a feller it hurts." Men and women will disagree sometimes—especially about another woman.

There was no real sympathy between Mrs. Tweedie and her boarder, but Barbara was a college graduate, and Mrs. Tweedie had heard that her family was of the best. Education and blood Mrs. Tweedie worshipped. If the devil had presented himself to her with his family history under his arm she would have welcomed him. Besides, taking boarders is a much more genteel way of piecing out an insufficient income than taking in washing.

Fanny Tweedie thought that Barbara was an awfully nice girl; though she was forced to admit after an acquaintance of two years that she did not wholly understand her. And Barbara liked Fanny because, though somewhat frivolous, she was companionable and amusing.

Barbara tolerated Mrs. Tweedie because boarding places in Manville were scarce. She did not care for the town, and disliked especially the manners of most of its people; but she kept her opinions to herself; which, as has been intimated, did not increase her popularity with the women.

Will Flint, son of the Rev. Elijah Flint, was a big, manly-looking fellow who might have been a greater success at college if his parents had not held the reins so tightly when he was a boy at home. His father had preached him a thousand sermons, and his mother had wept gallons of tears; yet here was the object of their labour at home in disgrace, his career at college ruined in his senior year.

Both said that Will had decided to leave college and engage in some sort of business. He had left, but to say that he decided to leave was as far from the truth as right from wrong. The faculty decided, Will left. He was not all to blame, and nothing dishonourable had been done, but his frank explanations did not assuage in the slightest degree the grief of his parents. The disgrace in their eyes was an indelible stain, and a gloom that was deep and black had reigned in the parsonage since the day of his arrival. Outside, tongues were wagging at a furious rate. The sons and daughters of the clergy seem to be the special prey of gossips. They are supposed to be impervious to temptation, something better than the ordinary human. We forget that the same God made them that made the children of the butcher and the baker.

Late that afternoon, after Barbara had sent the last little urchin homeward, she stood at a window looking out over the fields at the autumn foliage of the woods beyond. She had been there but a moment when Will Flint came down the road and turned into the path that led to the schoolhouse. When he saw her he stopped. Barbara did not know whether she was pleased or not to see him. It was time to go, however, so she put on her things, went out and locked the door, and started down the path.

"Hope you won't be vexed, Miss Wallace, because I came," said Will, "but I've been so confoundedly lonesome to-day that I—"

"I am not vexed," she said, quickly. His manner and frankness pleased her, and dispelled the doubt that was in her mind a moment before.

"I'm glad," he said as they turned and walked toward home. "The boys that I knew," he continued, "have gone away to work, or school. That is why I'm lonesome I suppose, and then the place seems different."

"But it's not," replied Barbara, and a smile played about her lips. He was only a big boy, after all.

"Everything seems to be smaller and shabbier."

"Things," said Barbara, "grow old like men and women."

"Yes, I know, but—I can't seem to say things the way I want to. I've been in the woods all day tramping and thinking; it's done me a lot of good, but—I guess I won't talk about myself any longer."

"But I am interested," said Barbara, earnestly, and then added, quickly, "in anybody who is perplexed."

"Thank you, but at present I'm nobody. I have yet to earn the right to be anybody, much less somebody."

"Very well, if you insist we will drop Mr. Flint."

"I wish that we could drop him out of sight for good," said Will, bitterly.

"What a wicked thought."

"If my thoughts—" Will checked himself suddenly and then asked: "Can't we find something else to talk about? I have it, the new woman's club, have you been invited to join?"

"The new woman's club?" said Barbara, feigning surprise. "I had not heard of it."

"You're making fun of me."

"Indeed, it is you who are trying to joke at our expense."

"No, really, Miss Wallace, I meant the woman's club that mother and the rest are getting up. Are you going to join?"

"Yes; do you approve of such things?"

"Really, I—I don't know, and yet I ought to know something about it because father and mother have been debating the question for a week past. Mother is very enthusiastic, but my impression is that father thinks that the club is unnecessary if not really harmful. I shall expect a great boom in Manville society when it gets in running order," Will replied, and then suddenly burst out laughing.

"Tell me, please, I want to laugh, too."

"Manville society! Doesn't it strike you as being funny?"

"Yes, and no."

"A woman's answer."

"Sometimes her only defence."

"Pardon me."

The October sun was disappearing behind the trees toward the west; the night air was stealing up from the lowlands; and a frost-laden wind was coming over the hills.

"Isn't the air great?" said Will after they had walked without speaking for several minutes.

"Splendid!" replied Barbara, taking a deep breath. "The fall is glorious." They had reached Mrs. Tweedie's gate and stopped.

"I want to thank you, Miss Wallace, for—" Will hesitated a moment, "for tolerating me to-day." Then he added, "Good night!" and walked quickly away.

Mrs. Tweedie happened to look out of her parlour window just in time to see Barbara and Will. The sight caused her to shrug her shoulders and wonder.