clicking, tapping along almost in unison, driven by sharp brains, quick fingers—and they had whirled around with lifted hands almost at the same instant, the only two in the class that had finished. They had given one another a quick look, a flashing smile, and that smile and look had lingered in Blythe's memory like a pleasant thing, and helped to complete the picture she had of that wise young scholar with a well-controlled twinkle of merriment in his eyes.
The memory flashed at her now as she stood on the steps of her father's house and watched him stride down the driveway. She followed down to the end of the drive and watched him away down the sidewalk. Then she saw the bus coming. Was he going to make it? She held her breath to watch. Oh, had she made him late to something most important? That would be an unhappy thing to remember, if she had.
Then she saw him swing on inside the door just as it was about to close. Was he looking back? He was too far away for her to see.
But there were footsteps. Was someone coming? There were also tears on the verge of arrival. She turned like a flash, hurried up to the house, and vanished inside just as one of her friends reached the gateway and called out to her. But she was gone. She couldn't, couldn't talk to anyone now. Not after what had happened. Idle chatter of friends and neighbors would put a blur over the precious thoughts that were in her heart, if she allowed them to come now, before they were firmly fixed in memory. The morning was too rare and precious to be mingled with the commonplaces of life. She must get away by herself and savor this wonderful thing that had come to her.
So Blythe sped to her room and locked her door on the world that might have interfered.
For a moment she paused with her hands spread behind her on the closed door and looked about her. It was the same room it had been a few minutes before. There lay her coat and hat across the chair, just where she had dropped them when Susan told her she had a caller. There on the bureau lay her handbag. She had been all ready to go down to that Red Cross class, and of course she ought to be going at once. But she couldn't just walk out and go down to sew, until she had a chance to catch her breath and realize what had happened. Anyway, there were women enough there to run the class without her. It would be all right for her to wait just a few minutes and get her poise again. If she went down at once there would be a kind of glory-shine in her face that everyone would see. She was sure some of those catty women who had so much to say about other girls would ask her about it. They never let any little thing go by. It seemed sometimes as if they were putting a magnifying glass over her to study her every time she came into the room. The questions they asked were impertinent questions about her home life, her family and friends, just so they would be able to tell about it afterward. "My friend Miss Bonniwell went to the orchestra concert last night. Yes, she went with young Seavers. You know. They run around together a lot." She could fairly hear them saying things like that. In fact, she had overheard some of their talk that ran a good deal after that fashion, and she couldn't bear the thought that they should look into her face to-day and, by some occult power they seemed to possess, search out that grand and glorious thing that had happened to her this morning.
She sank into her easy chair and put her head back happily. This was her own haven. No one had a right to call her out from here.
Then she closed her eyes and drifted back to the moment when she had gone downstairs, scarcely able to believe the message Susan had brought, that Charlie Montgomery, her childhood's admiration, was really down there and had come to see her.
Oh, she had thought, it probably wasn't anything that mattered—some technicality, perhaps, about the business of their alumni. Though she couldn't remember that he had been interested in their plans about the alumni, but perhaps they had drawn him into it in some way. Those had been her thoughts as she hurried downstairs with her hands out. Had she been too eager, shown her pleasure too plainly at first?
But no. He loved her! He had come to tell her that he loved her. Amazing truth! That anything so unforeseen should have come to her. The joy in her heart seemed almost to stifle her.
And then she went over the whole experience, bit by bit. Her delight when she recognized him. Her instant knowledge of her own heart, that he was beloved! Her hands held out to greet him, the touch of his hands, the thrill! Was she dreaming, or had this all been true? Oh, if he could but have stayed a few minutes longer. Just so that they might have talked together and gotten their bearings. And he was going away, into what he seemed to think was pretty sure death! Could it be that they would have to wait for heaven to talk together? Oh, the joy and the sorrow of it! The memory of his arms about her, his lips on hers! It was wonderful! It was beautiful!
And it wasn't anything she could tell anyone about! Not yet, anyway. Not even her mother. Her mother wouldn't understand a boy she never had known telling her he loved her. She couldn't bear to bring the beauty of that newfound love into the light of criticism. And that would be inevitable if she tried to make it plain. They would only think he was one of those "fresh" soldiers, as her mother frequently disapproved of some of the very young, quite exuberant boys at the canteen. And her mother would never understand how she could have so far forgotten her upbringing as to let a stranger kiss her, hold her in his arms, even if he had gone to school with her years ago. No, this was something she would keep to herself for the present. Herself—and God—perhaps. She didn't feel that she knew God very well. She would want to pray to Him to guard her beloved as he went forth into unknown perils. She would have to learn to pray. She would want to do this thing right, and she did not feel that she knew much about prayer, that is, effectual prayer! Oh, of course she had said her prayers quite formally ever since she was a tiny child, quite properly and discreetly. But seldom had she prayed for things she really needed. She had seldom really needed anything. Needs had always been supplied for her before she was even aware that they were needs. But now, here was a need. She wanted with all her heart to have Charlie safe and to have him come back to her. She wanted to feel his arms about her again, to see him look into her eyes the way he had done when he told her so reverently that he loved her—that he had prayed for her.
Where could she learn to pray right? Since she could not tell anyone else of her need, would God teach her?
And just then Susan tapped at her door.
"You're wanted on the telephone, Miss Blythe," she said, and Blythe's heart leaped with sudden hope. Could it be possible that Charlie had found a way to telephone her?
"Coming, Susan," she sang out, springing from her chair and hurrying to the door.
CHAPTER II
Charlie Montgomery, striding down Wolverton Drive, was quickening his pace with every stride until he was fairly hurling himself along, straining his eyes toward the highway. Was that the bus coming? Yes, it was. And he must catch it! He couldn't possibly do all that was to be done before he left unless he did.
But the glad wonder was in his heart even though he hadn't time to cast a thought in its direction. Was he going to make it? He scarcely had breath for the shrill whistle that rent the air and arrested the driver as he was about to start on his route, but it reached the driver's ear, and looking around, he saw the soldier coming. One had to wait for a soldier these days, of course.
Just in time Charlie swung onto the bus and was started on his way; and not till then, as he dropped into the seat that a smiling old gentleman made beside him, did his mind revert to the great joy that he was carrying within him.
He had come this way full of fear and trembling lest he was doing the wrong thing. Lest he would be laughed at, scorned, for daring to call on the young woman upon whom his heart had dared to set itself. She had not only received him graciously,
