"Good luck is with me sometimes, Barbara," said Will, as they turned into the street from Mrs. Stout's yard.

"Is that a new name for me?" asked Barbara.

"No; but it would be a good one. I meant that I was fortunate in meeting you; chance meetings, you know, are often best."

"Yes," replied Barbara, and then added, "if the chance is genuine." He had met her so often of late by chance, that now, as he was bold enough to speak of it, for a moment she doubted his sincerity.

"Really, Barbara," he replied, quickly, "on honour, I was on my way home, and had no idea where you were." (Except, he might have added, that she was first in his thoughts.) Barbara believed him, nevertheless she was annoyed. Whether her feeling of annoyance was caused by what Mrs. Stout had said, by the chance meeting with Will, or by what people were saying about them, Barbara herself was not sure. She was certain, however, that people were talking and linking her name with his in a way that she did not like. That very night at supper Mrs. Tweedie had given her estimate of Will Flint's character. The picture that she painted, though more suggestive than real, was intended to be anything except favourable, and Barbara knew that it was intended especially for her. But despite the talk, she liked Will better than any other of her acquaintances in Manville, because he at least was companionable and honest.

"What's going on at the Stouts'?" asked Will. Barbara related the story, and when she had finished Will expressed his feelings with a long whistle.

"The little rascals!" he exclaimed. "I suppose it's all my fault."

"Your fault?" said Barbara, in surprise.

"Yes. Early this afternoon as I was on my way to the pond for an afternoon's fishing I met the Stout boys. Henry asked me where I was going, and when I told him he expressed a wish that he might go too. I said come along, and he did, after a whispered conference with the other two. We had a bully time."

"You great big boy!" exclaimed Barbara, not knowing whether to laugh or be angry. "And those three boys are going to be punished when you are the one wholly to blame."

"But, Barbara, I never once thought about school, and Henry didn't speak of it."

"Of course he didn't, but now he has got to pay for his fun, and yours, too."

Will stopped and looked back, undecided as to what he ought to do, and very much disturbed to think that he had been the cause of trouble.

"What shall I do, go back and tell Mrs. Stout?" he asked.

"It is all over now, probably."

"That's so," said Will, gloomily, as they resumed their walk. "But I'll go down in the morning and confess everything, and then, some day when there's no school, I'll give those boys a good time to pay for the whipping they've had. The little villains—do you go to see them all when they're sick?"

"Yes, unless some one comes to tell me about them."

That was news to Will. He had thought always that common school teachers' duties consisted of hearing children recite, and the maintaining of discipline in the schoolroom.

"Do you mean to say," he said, in surprise, "that you think something of, or rather like, every one of those dirty little kids?"

"Like them!" replied Barbara, warmly; "I love them. How could I teach if I did not?"

"I—I didn't know, I never thought about it before," he stammered. He had learned something. He had heard her speak the word "love" with feeling, and by it he knew the destiny that he had hoped for, and was humbled. They had reached Mrs. Tweedie's gate and stopped.

"Barbara," said Will, "you don't mind if I walk home with you from the school sometimes, do you?"

"No," she replied, after a pause. "I am glad to have you—sometimes."

"And the other times, Barbara?" he asked, and then quickly added, "Pardon me, I have no right to ask; but I may come if not too often?"

"Yes," replied Barbara, and then went quickly up the walk to the door.

"Good night," Will called after her, and then slowly walked toward home filled with thoughts of higher ideals, of Barbara, and his new love—for her. What were her thoughts of him? he wondered. Did she ever think of him at all? He knew something of what others were thinking and saying, but Barbara— He knew that many believed that while away from home he had led a dissolute life, and that he had been expelled from college because of some dishonourable act. Barbara surely had heard these stories about him—they were all lies—but how was she to know? Until then he had not cared what people said, but now— Was he worthy even to try to win her? Thus far in his life he had accomplished nothing. What had he to offer her—not in money or position—but as a man?