Barbara Wallace never forgot the morning on which she discovered that one of her pupils was threatened with diphtheria. The child affected, and her sister, were sent home, and Tommy Tweedie was sent for Mr. George, the chairman of the school committee. While awaiting his arrival, Barbara went on with the morning's work, but with less interest than usual, and a heavy heart.

An hour and a half dragged by before Mr. George came. On the way he had met Doctor Jones, who had seen the sick child, and confirmed Barbara's suspicions. That morning he had discovered three cases himself. Conditions were considered serious, and Mr. George decided that the school should be closed for at least two weeks, and instructed Barbara to inform the children before they were dismissed at noon. When she made the announcement, the thoughtless young Americans wiggled like tadpoles at the prospect of a two weeks' vacation, and danced and shouted for joy the moment they were out-of-doors. Barbara watched them from the doorway as they ran off, and when the thought came to her that some of them might never return, the tears sprang to her eyes. When the children had disappeared she went back to her desk, for a moment looked over the shabby little room and the rows of empty seats, then buried her head in her arms and sobbed like a child.

"Miss Wallace," she heard some one say in a child's sweet voice.

Barbara looked up and saw Bessie Duncan, one of her flock, standing in the doorway with a bunch of autumn leaves in her hand. Bessie belonged to one of the poorest, dirtiest families in Manville; she herself, however, was a diamond, though a dirty one, and Barbara loved her.

"Why, Bessie," said Barbara, wiping her eyes, "did you forget something?"

"No, um, I—why ain't we goin' to have school any more?"

"Because some of the children are sick, and we don't want any of the others to be."

"Ain't we ever goin' to have any more school?" Bessie asked, as she walked slowly toward Barbara.

"Oh, yes, when the children are well again."

The child was silent for a moment, then she smiled, and gave Barbara the bunch of leaves.

"There ain't any flowers now," she said, "so I got these for you."

"Thank you, Bessie, you were very kind to think of me. Aren't they pretty?"

"Yes, um, I picked 'em all by myself in the woods. What makes the leaves fall off?"

"Because winter is coming."

"Miss Wallace," said the child after a pause, "I hope you ain't goin' to be sick and die."

Barbara took the little one in her arms, and kissed her dirty little cheek.

"No, Bessie, I hope not."

"I like you, Miss Wallace."

"I am very glad that you do."

"Does that big man like you, too?" Bessie innocently asked, and then wondered why her teacher's face grew pink. Before Barbara had time to reply she heard a heavy step, and looking up saw Will Flint, the "big man," standing in the doorway and smiling at what he thought was a pretty picture.

"Don't come in," said Barbara, in alarm.

"Why, Barbara, what—" he began as he walked toward her.

"Don't, please—Will," pleaded Barbara. "Please go outside, and then I will explain."

Will backed slowly out of the door, wondering what had happened to cause Barbara to speak and act so strangely. When he had closed the door Barbara put Bessie down, and went to an open window. Will felt relieved when he looked up and saw her smiling.

"We discovered diphtheria among the children to-day, and I didn't want you to be exposed," she explained.

"How about yourself?" he asked, bluntly.

"Why, I have got to take my chances with the children."

"Rather dangerous, isn't it?"

"I—I suppose so; the school is to be closed for two weeks."

Will did not like that, he would miss the walks that he had been enjoying with her.

"Are you going home soon?" he asked.

"Yes, but you must not go with me to-day."

"I'm not afraid," said Will, quickly.

"But I am—for you," she replied. The tiniest bit of hesitation before the "for you" made Will happy, but he made no reply. Perhaps it was the time, or place, or the big blue eyes of Bessie Duncan peering at him over the window-sill, that restrained him from speaking the words that trembled on his lips.

"Good-bye," was all he said, as he turned quickly and strode away. In place of the sun and sky, the woods and fields, he saw her face. He did not hear the chatter of the crows, or the soughing of the wind; only her voice could he hear saying, "Will," and "for you."

Barbara and Bessie watched until he disappeared around a bend in the road.

"Is he a good man?" Bessie asked as she took Barbara's hand, and looked up at her earnestly. It was she who had asked that same question before. The first time Barbara had evaded an answer, but now she replied quickly, and with a flood of meaning:

"Yes."