On Friday at three o’clock Phillip strode through the crowd of bundle-laden men and women in front of the waiting-room in the square and, stationing himself on the curbstone under John’s front window, gazed upward and yelled lustily until John stuck his head out and said:

“Shut up or you’ll wake Davy. Come on up.”

So Phillip climbed the stairs—something he might have done in the first place had it not been contrary to established custom—and found David snoring in an armchair with a lap full of books and John sorting out some golf clubs.

“I’m going up to the links with Larry Baker. Want to come along? Fresh air’ll do you good.”

“Can’t,” answered Phillip; “I’ve got to shoot. We begin at three. What time is it?”

“Three ten.”

“Really? I’ll have to hurry, won’t I?” He sat down and brought forth a letter from one of his pockets. “I got this a little while ago. It’s from[186] Margey. You know I wrote them on Sunday that I was going to bring you home with me for Christmas if you’d come, and this is what Margey says. Let’s see.... Um!... Here it is: ‘Mamma is so pleased at the prospect of seeing Mr. North and wants you to tell him for her that he will be very welcome for as long as he cares to stay. And she thinks you should explain that her health will not allow her to write to him in person. She fears he will consider her ungrateful for his kindness. You must tell him, Phil dear, that we are plain folks nowadays, and that Elaine is not very exciting. We wouldn’t want him to be disappointed, would we? Mamma says we must get up a dance or something for him. Does he like dancing? I have been wondering——’ Er, that’s all, I reckon. The rest is just nonsense.”

“Do you mean to tell me that your sister can write nonsense, Phil?” asked John.

“Why, yes; why?”

“No reason why she shouldn’t, of course. Only I’d somehow got the idea that she was an extremely dignified and serious-minded young lady.”

“Oh, Margey’s serious-minded, I reckon—at times. But she’s silly, too. All girls are, aren’t[187] they? That is,” amended Phillip, thinking of Betty, “most girls are. I know one that isn’t.”

“Hello!” said John, pausing in the act of pulling on his golf boots. “I thought I could discern an unusual buoyancy about you of late. Not a college widow, I hope?”

“No, of course not. But I must be getting on. You’ll come, won’t you?”

“To Virginia? Yes, Phil. And when you write please thank your mother and—— How about your sister? Think she wants me to come?”

“Why, of course.”

“Oh; I didn’t gather that impression from what you read me. I believe she didn’t mention herself, did she?”

“That doesn’t make any difference. She’ll be tickled to death.”

“Think so? Well, I hope she won’t mind having me. Don’t let them put themselves out for me, Phil. Never mind the dance, you know; I’m getting too old for such frivolous things. As for excitement, why, we can do without that for a few days. Elaine offers me one inducement that is quite sufficient.”

“You mean the shooting?” asked Phillip.

[188]

“Eh? Oh, yes; the shooting, of course. Let me see, Phil, we’re to shoot—what is it? Ducks?”

“Why, no; partridge, of course,” replied Phillip, gazing at the other in astonishment.

“To be sure; partridge. The partridge is an exasperating bird that always goes off like a watchman’s rattle when you’re not expecting it and leaves your nerves in a state of collapse. Yes, Phil, we will sally forth with dogs and guns and sandwiches and shoot the merry little partridge on its native heath. Does the Virginia partridge live on a heath, Phil?”

“Oh, you’re crazy,” answered the other in disgust. “I’m going now. But I’m awfully glad you’re coming South, John; it’s mighty good of you.”

“Don’t mention it. My regards to your folks when you write, and tell them I accept their kind invitation with a great deal of pleasure. So long. You said we were to shoot partridges, didn’t you?”

“I reckon you’re drunk,” answered Phillip. “I must get on.”

“So you’ve remarked several times. Don’t let me hurry you.”

There was no apparent danger of that, for Phillip, instead of rushing off, was strolling about the study[189] looking at the pictures as though they had suddenly acquired a new interest, and giving especial attention to the objects on the mantel. John watched him speculatingly as he drew on his coat.

“Help yourself if you see anything you fancy,” he said.

“I will, then.” Phillip took a photograph from the mantel. “I’ll take this; much obliged. Good-by.”

“Hold on, there! What have you got?”

“Just an old photograph of you.” He held it up.

“Oh; well, take it away. It’s not beautiful, Phil, but I’m told it flatters me quite a bit. I presume I get one of you in return?”

“When I have any you do,” laughed Phillip. “I’m off.”

“Queer chap,” mused John, when the door was closed. “Wonder why he wanted the picture?”

He put a couple of balls in his pocket and took up his bag. Then, his eye falling on the still slumbering David, he balanced six discarded clubs about him in such a way that they would topple to the floor at the slightest movement, and left the room.

Phillip wrote a letter that evening before dinner. One passage was as follows: “I’m sending a photograph[190] of him. He gave it to me to-day. He says it flatters him, but it doesn’t really. I don’t think it does him justice. Anyhow, it will tell you more than I could even if I answered all your questions. I don’t see what difference it makes whether he’s light or dark, anyhow. And I don’t believe it was mamma that wanted to know. It sounds a heap more like Margey. Don’t let any one shoot over the East Farm; I want some birds left for North. If Nate comes up again, tell him to shoot ’round the house; that’s good enough for him, anyway.”

November made a graceful exit under blue skies and to the music of soft breezes, and December tramped on in the manner of a stage villain, filming the shallows with ice and piling the snow high in the streets. That first storm held for Phillip an irresistible attraction. He watched it through the window of his room until it was almost dark; and then, tossing aside the books with which he had been pretending to study, he called Tudor Maid and together they went forth and faced the beating wind and the flying, needlelike sleet. Maid couldn’t see the fun of it at first, but after Phillip had rolled her in a snowbank she, too, became imbued with the spirit of adventure and went bounding clumsily[191] ahead through the drifts with all the ludicrous abandon of a ten-weeks’ puppy.

They followed the river, barely visible through the whirling mist, their path dimly outlined by the yellow lights that crept away into the gathering darkness in a far-reaching arc. They met no other wayfarers after they left the centre of the town, and, save for the occasional friendly gleam from house w............