Ann Arbor Tales. Karl Edwin Harriman
and dried it on her handkerchief. The sun was obscured and she closed the blue parasol. Finally she said:
"Jack—Jack dear—why did you do it?"
She did not lift her eyes as she spoke, but, rather, regarded the tip of her parasol, pressed against the toe of one little patent-leather slipper.
"What?" he asked calmly; so calmly that she could not tell whether he were dissembling ignorance of her meaning.
"You understand," she said—"last night——"
"How do you know?" he exclaimed suddenly; but before she could reply he added, gently, "I'm sorry—I'm dead sorry!"
She was moved to lift her eyes by the note of contrition in his voice. Her lips parted the least bit over her teeth and she smiled.
"How—how could you, dear?" she went on; "after—after—that night. I've been thinking about it all day. I didn't mean to mention it at first—but—but—I couldn't help it. You don't really like to do such things; do you, Jack? There, I know you don't. It's just what they call—spirits—I suppose——"
He laughed aloud, and his laugh was echoed back across the river. "Yes," he cried, gleefully—"that's it—spirits!"
She glanced up at him reprovingly. "You know I didn't mean that. I don't think you should laugh. But Jack dear,"—she gazed steadily, soberly, at him now—"you won't do it any more, will you?"
He did not answer.
"Can't you promise me, Jack—me?" she asked, tenderly.
Long afterward she recalled to him that instant of hesitation before he replied.
"I promise," he exclaimed, finally, with a brave note of resolution in his voice.
She sighed and settled back more comfortably among the cushions.
"I knew you would," she said.
After a moment: "Do you care so very—so very, very much?" he asked.
"Of course I do," she answered, quite gaily.
"Why?"
The eagerness in his voice startled her. It may have been that which induced the little tremor she felt pass over her. She closed her eyes as he, leaning forward, watched her.
"Dearest—dearest," she heard him whisper; "is it because—because——"
She opened her eyes then, dreamily, languishingly, and in them he seemed to read her answer, and was satisfied.
They had reached the point where they had planned to spread their picnic supper. He drove the canoe into the soft earth of the sloping bank and steadied it with the paddle while she, gathering up her fluffy skirts, stepped out. He dragged the boat upon the bank and handed her the hamper. They climbed up to a shelf of rock over the edge of which a spring sent whirling to the road below a glistening rope of water. They set the basket in the cool shade, at the edge of the shelf, and descending again followed the road along the stream. The air was filled with the sounds of joyous Nature. The world was glad and gay; glad for the tall, strong youth in flannels who strode beside a yellow-haired girl; and gay for the girl.
In the evening they waited on "their rock," as she called it, until twilight rose and the birds became quiet and the wild life about was still.
Over the shoulder of the hill across the river the moon rose, round, high, white, to light a gleaming path along the stream.
Paddling back, Houston displayed his skill, for it was no child's work against the current. She watched him; the strong, even movements of his arms, as he fairly bent the paddle blade before his steady strokes. Rounding a bend the lights of the town twinkled into view.
"We're nearly home," he called, and the words came quick and short from the effort he had made.
"And you're tired," she murmured.
"No, not tired," he replied—"I only wish it were longer——"
"But we can come again—before you go home."
"Florence—I don't want to go, now." He hesitated a moment. "I might make the governor believe that the summer school would materially benefit his son," he added.
She laughed at the mockery in his voice. "I'm afraid I should be your only professor," she said.
"I would hope so," he replied.
"No, dear," she said, seriously, "don't this summer—next, perhaps."
"Will you write me then—often?" he asked.
"How often?"
"Don't you suppose you could—I shan't say every day—but every other day?"
"Yes."
And his heart leaped in his breast at the tone she employed.
"I love you," he whispered. "Oh, how I love you!"
"And you will keep your promise?" She smiled back at him.
"Yes."
"Dearest Jack!"
"I'm going to tell the governor when I get home, Florence," he suddenly exclaimed.
"No, no, dear, don't; not yet." The haste of her reply was startling—"I don't think I would," she added more calmly, seemingly herself conscious of it. "Perhaps he'll come on, next year; then he could meet me; and he could see—— Perhaps he might not—might not—like it——"
"Not like it!" he cried. "Yes, you're right; he might fall in love with you himself! Yes, he might," he added in mock seriousness, "I hadn't thought of that...."
They walked slowly through the silent streets to her home, and in the darkness of the little round room he held her close in his arms and kissed her.
"Has it been a happy day?" he whispered, his cheek pressed to hers.
He felt the quick pressure of her hand upon his arm.
"So happy," she murmured.
After the door closed behind him she stood as she had that first night, and in the darkness about her she seemed to see the sweet face of a young girl—the girl of the picture.... She brushed the back of her hand across her smooth forehead and sighed....
In another week he was gone.
He came back to her after many weeks and although she did not ask, he told her he had kept his promise.
IV
During the winter that followed, Houston's constant attention to Florence was generally accepted at its face-value. That they were engaged few of their intimates doubted; and among the faculty members of their acquaintance there were many smiles and sidewise glances.
At a Forty Club dance one night Mrs. Longpré, a chaperon, said to Mrs. Clifford, another, lowering her lorgnette through which, for some moments she had stared, rather impertinently, as was her custom, at Jack and Florence, "I find that couple quite interesting."
"Why, pray?" Mrs. Clifford asked, roused suddenly from the doze into which she had lapsed, due to ennui that she made no effort to conceal.
"That Mr. Houston seems a very nice young man," observed the worthy dame, patronizingly, and as though speaking to herself, "but what he can see in that girl is beyond me."
Mrs. Clifford squinted. She refused to add to her generally aged and wrinkled appearance by wearing spectacles.
"Isn't she a proper person?" she asked.
Mrs. Clifford had a proper daughter—a very proper daughter—who at that precise moment was sitting prim and solitary on the lowest step of the gallery stairs.
"Well," Mrs. Longpré observed, significantly, "there have been stories. Of course one is quite prepared to hear stories and whether they are true or not one never knows," she added, defensively. "But the girl's mother allows her