"You look very well!" Medfield glanced at his son approvingly. "New suit?"

"I got it in Vienna," said Julian modestly.

"Um-m— Very good cut! Turn around."

The boy wheeled about.

"Yes—very good—— You have a nice day to go."

Medfield nodded toward the window.

"First-rate!" The young man's face was full of careless light. It seemed to radiate about them.

His father looked at it half curiously. "Have them serve tea for you.... Give her a good time," he said absently. He was searching among the papers beside him. "I ought to have some cards somewhere!"

"What is it, sir? Can I get something for you?"

"Over there in that desk— That's it! Lower drawer— Just see if there are some of my cards there, will you?"

The boy took them out with an amused smile. "Going calling?" He brought them across.

Medfield selected one and held his pencil thoughtfully poised for a moment—and smiled as he jotted something down.

He slipped it into an envelope and pencilled the address and handed it to his son.

"Give that to Munson, will you? Tell him to pick three dozen of the best roses in the garden, and send them to-day.... Tell him the best ones!" he added exactly.

The young man glanced at the address carelessly. His face lighted up.

"Fine! I'll tell him to send her some corking ones—a big bunch of them!"

"You can tell him what I said," said his father dryly. "And have them sent to-day."

"All right, sir." He half turned away. "I'd like to pick some roses myself—for Miss Canfield— You won't object, I suppose?" His father's roses were sacred.

But Herman Medfield waved it away. "Pick all you like." He was gracious with it.

"But not the best ones," laughed the boy. He tucked the card in his pocket and went out.

Aunt Jane, sitting at her desk in the office, looked up as he went by.

He nodded and smiled to her, thinking of the little card tucked away in his pocket.

She got up and came across. "You going out home?" she asked.

He radiated happiness. "A ripping good day, isn't it!" He waved his hand at all outdoors.

"You'll have a good time," said Aunt Jane. "And Miss Canfield's a nice girl." She was surveying his new clothes kindly. "I'm glad you're going to take her."

"So am I!" said the boy. "She's waiting for me—" And he hurried on.

But Miss Canfield was not in the waiting-room. He glanced hurriedly about, and crossed to the open window and looked into the street. He could not sit down.

It was a glorious day—floating clouds, everything fresh and flooded with light.... Down on the walk under the window the man-of-all-work trundled a low cart, and the rumble of the wheels came up, chucking clumsily along.

The young man scarcely heard the sound of the wheels. His ear was waiting for something in the corridor—for light footsteps that would come.... He shrugged his shoulders, looking down on the man trundling his cart, and he whistled softly.... Then his ear caught the sound, coming along the corridor far off—light, tripping steps and the little swish of draperies—and he had turned to face her.

It was not Miss Canfield!

A young woman stood in the doorway, looking in inquiringly.

She was tall and slender, with a certain quiet grace as she stood there, glancing into the room. There was something poised in the motion—a kind of freedom and lightness.

The young man's eye rested on her a minute—and turned back to the window indifferent.... She was very late. He took out his watch and looked—five minutes past the hour. He put it back with a little impatient gesture. They would miss the best light for the garden!

Behind him, in the room, he was conscious that the young woman had come in. She was waiting for some one, it seemed, like himself—and he heard her move a little ... and then a subdued laugh. He half turned his head—it reminded him of something.... Could he have met her somewhere—before he went abroad? The steps rustled and came nearer and a touch fell on his shoulder—very light, as if it might drift away—as if perhaps it were not there....

Julian turned swiftly—and stared into her eyes; they were bubbling over with laughter, and the hair fluffing under the little modish hat, caught reddish gleams and glinted at him. And he stared!

She laughed out—the hands hanging easily before her. "You didn't know me!"

"You are not—you!" blurted Julian. "You are—you're different!"

Then he seized her hands and looked at her—"I say! Come on!... You are—You're stunning, you know!"

"Thank you!" said the girl. "Yes—I'm ready." And they went out into the sunshine.

And all the way, in the street-car, sitting beside her, the young man stole glimpses.

She was different! He had expected that she would be changed, of course—a little different in her street clothes; and underneath he discovered he had been half afraid of the change—afraid perhaps that she might be a little common or awkward, without the distinction of her cap and uniform.... But this young woman— He stole another glance, and his shoulders straightened in a gesture of pride and bewildered delight. This was the real thing! The other girl was masquerading.

"Who are you?" he said abruptly, as he put up his hand to help her from the car. "I don't know you! I thought I did—but you are somebody else!" He was looking at her keenly.

"Goose!" she laughed. "I am Mary Canfield, of course— Which way do we go?"

"This way." They fell into step. And he was conscious that the light, tripping, hospital step had given way to a free, swinging movement of the whole body. She was like the radiant day about them.... And she was like the roses—when at last they stood among them.... Her freedom had the same careful air of cultivation; and the crisp little color in her cheeks had the same dainty refinement.

He plucked a rose and held it against her cheek. "Just a match!" he said critically. "Goes with you! Will you have it?"

She tucked it in her belt—among the endless frills—and he looked at it admiringly.

When he saw the gardener's eyes following them, he walked with conscious pride. He had not known that any one felt like this! He would have liked to walk with her always—with the whole world looking on and admiring her.... She belonged to him!

"I say!" He stopped short in the path. "You are engaged to me, you know!"

"Oh—am I?" She laughed.

He went in a panic— Some girls were such frightful flirts! They had no decency—They didn't play the game!

"You are mine!" he said fiercely and he glared at the gardener among his roses across the path.

"Oh—very well! Have it so!" Her voice was laughing and sweet.

His courage came flooding back. "You are to wait here—please, and we'll have the tea brought out."

"Oh— How pretty!" She was looking into the pergola. A green maze of branches crossed and recrossed the sides; and among them the scattered roses flushed transparently in the light. "How beautiful it is!"

"Will you go in?" he said, standing aside.

"Will you walk into my parlor?" She stepped lightly in and faced him. "Now go and get tea! I like it here!"

She sat down and he looked at her once—and was off.

He hurried fast. Suppose she didn't stay?... Suppose it were not real! He fussed about cakes and sandwiches—and there must be strawberries. Everything must be of the best. Suppose she didn't wait! He hurried back.

She had taken off her hat and sat with her hands clasped, looking up into the mazy green tracery and the bits of rose color shining through.

"It is like us," she said with a little motion of her hand.

"Like you," he said soberly, sitting beside her. "I'm not a rose!"

"No!" She laughed out. "But it is like us—it's just happiness—nothing to it!" She crushed it in her hand.

And he stared at her.

"No one takes us seriously," she said. "They just think how young we are——"

"And how beautiful you are!"

"They know it won't last." She was looking at it musingly. "And they think we don't know——"

"It will last!" said the boy vehemently.

"Will it?" She held out her hand prettily and he kissed it.

"It's going to last forever," he said stoutly.

"But we don't care if it doesn't.... Do you know, I think that is what makes it beautiful—" She glanced at the leafy walls of the pergola. "We know it will not be like this always—and so we just—love it!"

He stared a little. "You are not the least bit what I thought you were!" he said helplessly.

"Don't you like me!" Her eyes demanded it.

"I—adore you!" he said softly. "But all these ideas about not lasting— Good Lord!—Here's the tea!" He sprang up and took it from the man and set it out for her. And they drank it—with the light coming in through the crossing vines and checkering the table, and falling on her hair and gleaming delicately at him in little glints like stars—all through it.