For days after John Hadley had seen Marjorie’s brother at the dance, he could think of little else. Marjorie would have heard about it by now he reasoned, and he wondered what she would think.

It was not that he considered himself bound in any way to Marjorie; he certainly was not in a position to consider such a thing, even if the girl herself were willing; but he hated to have her hear through a third person that he had been spending an evening with another girl, after their little misunderstanding. She had always known that he was not the sort of man to go about much with a number of girls, for the simple reason that he hated to waste time with persons for whom he did not sincerely care. With the exception of Marjorie Wilkinson, he seldom paid any attention to the members of the opposite sex, in order that he might give all the more time to his work.

In the last year John Hadley had made rapid progress. Entering the company as a “man of all jobs,” he had steadily climbed his way up, until now, as an expert on radio outfits, he was often sent to inspect or install some of the larger, more expensive ones. The expansion of the plant, due to the increased demand for this new modern invention, had created a splendid opportunity for the ambitious young man to rise; and he had been one of the first among the company’s employes to benefit by it.

Although he regretted the circumstances under which he had seen Jack Wilkinson, he did not regret the growing friendship between himself and Dorothy Snyder. When he visited his mother on the following week-end, and found the girl happily going about her work, she seemed more friendly than before, more like a normal human-being. There was something very appealing about her blue eyes, with the dark shadows under them, and her wistful way of keeping the conversation away from herself. Her voice, her manner, her very walk, proclaimed her well-bred; her gratitude to his mother was pleasant to see. John watched her as she moved about the house or sat in the living room with her fancy-work, so unobtrusive in her quiet way; and he wished that he might do something to help her, to take her out of her loneliness, just as his mother had helped her.

Dorothy would be busy all of Saturday afternoon and evening; but John succeeded in engaging her time for himself on Sunday afternoon, and he went to bed pleased with the turn affairs had taken. If the girl did not actually like him, at least she did not dislike him, and the prospect of her companionship at the end of each week was something to look forward to.

Soon after dinner the next day the couple set out for the beach. The sky was a deep blue, and there was a delightful sea-breeze; the water was just rough enough to be pretty. The quiet of the Sunday afternoon, interrupted only by the monotonous breaking of the waves near the shore, seemed very restful to Dorothy. She sighed peacefully.

John had resolved, if possible, to make the girl talk about herself. It would not only be interesting, but it would serve to keep his own thoughts away from Marjorie. But he realized that he must be very tactful.

“And do you like your work, Miss Snyder?” he asked, casually.

“Yes—and no,” she replied, thoughtfully. “I want to earn some money to pay my debts, but I shall be dreadfully sorry to leave your mother.”

John started; he had not considered this possibility. He had taken it for granted that the girl would remain with his mother as long as she had the cottage. “Leave mother?” he repeated. “But why should you?”

“Why, I don’t know. I never thought of anything else.”

“But you’re such company for her!” objected the young man. “And you needn’t be under any obligations to her—you can pay board, if you wish.”

“Yes, of course. But she might need the room—”

“Nonsense!” interrupted John. “Nobody wants an attic room! Mother couldn’t offer it to anybody her own age, and she never has young guests. And you probably couldn’t get another so cheaply anywhere else.”

“Yes, that’s true. But do you suppose she wants me?”

“Of course she does! And so do I!” he added, with sincerity.

Dorothy gave a little gasp, and looked sideways at her companion. Then, dropping her eyes, she remarked, quietly,

“Then I can’t stay.”

“You can’t stay—because we want you!” John repeated, in astonishment.

“No! I mustn’t have young men friends. I’m—I’m not free!”

“You mean you’re—engaged—or—married?”

“No, not that!” she cried, hastily. “I—I—” her eyes filled with tears—“I can’t explain, but I’m—well—I’m just not free, that’s all!”

John feared a return of her nervousness, and hated himself for making her cry. He tried to be reassuring.

“My dear girl,” he said, in an almost fatherly fashion, “for that matter, I’m not really free myself. I’ve cared for one girl ever since I was in high school, and I don’t believe I’ll ever care in that way for anybody else. She doesn’t seem to think much of me; but that doesn’t matter—my feelings won’t change. So couldn’t you just sort of adopt me as a big brother, and tell me your troubles when you want to? I promise not to bother you one bit!”

Dorothy looked up gratefully, and put her hand on John’s arm. She was thankful to be away from the dangerous topic of herself, and glad of the chance to accept this friendship so frankly offered.

“Oh, I do thank you!” she said. “And it will mean so much to be able to go on living with your mother. But will you promise not to talk about my affairs to anybody? I’m just a girl your mother is helping!”

“Why, certainly,” replied John. “Just as you wish.” Nevertheless he was mystified by her desire to hide from the world.

They walked along silently for awhile; then John talked of indifferent things until Dorothy seemed quite in control of herself again. At last she said,

“Can’t you tell me more about this girl? I’m so interested.”

“Why, yes, of course,” replied the young man. “Only I’d rather not tell you her name.”

“Naturally,” agreed Dorothy.

It was an interesting subject to John, and he spoke glowingly of the girl’s courage, her sincerity, her integrity. He told of her career as a Girl Scout, of the prizes and merit-badges she had won, of her distinction in being selected patrol leader of the troop which represented the United States scouts at the World Conference in Canada. Her record would not be complete, he thought, if he did not mention some of the difficulties and trials she had encountered during her boarding school life, and so he told Dorothy about Ruth Henry, and her mean actions against Marjorie; and as he related these incidents, he noticed that his companion listened with blazing eyes. Probably the story would do her good; in her interest in the other girl, she could forget her own troubles for a time.

“Why, she’s wonderful!” she cried, admiringly, when John had finished. “And she’s a Girl Scout officer now?”

“Yes, a Girl Scout lieutenant!” said John, proudly.

Dorothy seemed to be lost in thought.

“I used to know some Girl Scouts,” she said, more as if she were talking to herself than to her companion, “but I can’t remember their names now. If they come to me, I’ll tell them to you, so you can ask your friend, when you write, whether she knows them.”

“But I never write to her,” said John, softly.

“Why not?” asked Dorothy, in amazement.

“Well, she promised to spend part of her vacation at some resort with mother and me, and she suddenly changed her mind, left me out of the question, and went out on a ranch instead. But it wasn’t just that—I didn’t blame her a bit for liking that better—only she didn’t take the trouble to explain, even after her plans were made. She simply waited for me to find out through somebody else—and then she practically laughed at my chagrin!”

“Oh, no!” protested Dorothy. “You misunderstood her! If she’s the kind of girl you’ve been telling me about, she couldn’t do that. She was waiting for a special opportunity to tell you all about it.”

“I wonder!” mused John. “I wish I believed that. But she has never written!”

“Naturally—if you haven’t! Girls don’t write first.”

John was silent for a moment; that aspect of the situation had never occurred to him.

“Perhaps you’re right,” he admitted, finally. “Do you think I ought to write, Dorothy?” “I do!” replied the girl emphatically, so absorbed in her thought that she had not noticed his use of her first name.

“Then I will!” he said.

That night he wrote a friendly, but impersonal letter to Marjorie, ignoring their silence. But in spite of the fact that he knew Jack had told about the dance, he never mentioned Dorothy Snyder’s name, or alluded to her in any way.