cannot possibly accept his kind invitation for this evening. Something else was already planned. Thank him for the invitation."
Then Blythe went contentedly to her room and sat down to await the ring from the telephone. Would Charlie call? Could he call? She was sure he would if he could.
And it was then she had her first uninterrupted time for going over, step by step, the beautiful experience of the morning. It was then she could close her eyes and visualize his face when he rose from his chair to meet her as she came downstairs. That fine lifting of his head, the sparkle in his eyes, the old humble, yet assured manner he had as a boy in school. Charlie! The same Charlie she used to watch and admire as a lad in school days. Charlie, come to tell her that he loved her! It was almost beyond belief! He had never seemed to look her way before. How did he know that he loved her? He had seen her so seldom.
All the sweet, hurrying, eager questions rushed upon her, each demanding to be answered at once, yet none of them shaking her faith in his love, even for an instant. The breathtaking memory of his arms about her, folding her close. Why, she had never dreamed what love like this could be!
She had read many beautiful love stories of course, had delighted in them, yet none of them came up to the sweetness of those all-too-brief blissful moments while Charlie was with her. Her own beloved!
There would come a time, of course, when she must bring all this out in the open, must tell her mother and father. Or would there? Must she? If anything happened to Charlie, if he did not come back, she would keep it deep in her own heart. Never would she allow even her dearest ones to speculate on what Charlie was, and what he had intended to do about all this. That was her part, and for the present it must be kept so. Precious. Just between themselves. And so, whatever came in the future, this afternoon was hers to be with Charlie in her thoughts. To knit up all the years that had been so empty and barren for them both before the knowledge of their mutual love had come to make it shine like a light.
And then she turned in her mind to face that other thought, that terrible thought, that perhaps he might not come back. Not ever! He had spoken as if that was a sure thing. In fact, it was the only reason, apparently, that had given him the courage to come and tell her of his love, as if it were just a kind of spiritual thing that could last through eternity but could not be used on this earth. It seemed a beautiful, awesome way to look at life, to reach such heights of sacrifice that he could smile as he said it. Would she ever reach that height, too? Oh, she could not, must not, think of that now. She must only think how he was going to try to call her up sometime, to-day, or this evening, and she must be at home and be ready for it. She must have heartening words ready at the tip of her tongue, for his time to talk with her might be very short, if it came at all. Just between trains, or a stop at some station for connection or some needed repair. She must think of all those things and be ready not to waste the time. She must have a pencil and paper ready in case he wanted her to write down an address or something. But she must have some brief sweet messages ready for him to take with him in his memory; things he would like to hear her voice saying, ringing in his heart sometime when he was far away and needed comfort or strengthening.
And so she sat and dreamed it out, as if she were communing with him, knitting up those past years when they had never talked except a few scant words concerning an algebra problem.
It might have seemed to an outsider like a monotonous little round of thoughts to be so sweet and absorbing, but they were precious to the lovely girl who sat and thought them. Like some potent charm that works a change on words written long ago brings out clearly what was invisible before, so these tender thoughts were painting over the past years and bringing out the meaning of a young love that had grown up unknown and unacknowledged. And now she could remember glances, furtive shadowed smiles, little acts of kindness and courtesy, like picking up her examination paper that a breeze from the window had caught and fluttered across the aisle down to his vicinity. She could read the look in his eyes, the flush on his cheek that before might have only meant embarrassment, shyness. Oh, it was wonderful, this thinking, in the light of the knowledge of that confession of his that he loved her!
Into the midst of these happy dreams, that were as yet not consciously tinged with the coming fears of possible pain and sorrow, there came the ringing of the telephone.
Blythe sprang from her chair and hurried to the instrument across the hall in her mother's room, lovely anticipation in her face. Could this be Charlie?
But no, it was only some tiresome woman who wanted to persuade her to undertake the management of a play to be given for the benefit of a day nursery.
Feverishly, because she didn't want the telephone to be in use when Charlie called—if he called—she tried to decline, but the woman only urged the harder.
"But such things are not in my line, Mrs. Basset. I never got up a play in my life, wouldn't know how to go about it, and besides, just at present I'm doing all the war work I can possibly manage, without undertaking anything else. No, I'm sorry. I can't possibly do it. Think it over? No, I'm sorry I can't promise to do that even, for I wouldn't, under any circumstances, undertake to put on a play anywhere, and I'm quite sure there are more important things to do for the war than to get up a play. No, Mrs. Basset, you'll have to count me out."
She hung up at last with a sigh and glanced at the clock. Five whole minutes wasted that way! What if he had tried to call during that time, and might have no other opportunity! But there! She must not get hysterical over this.
Quietly she went back to her room and read over the notes she had been writing down. Why, they were almost a letter, for the words came directly from her heart! She would go on writing, and when he did call, she would tell him she was just writing him a letter.
With this thought in mind she went back to her writing, a light in her eyes and a sweet smile on her face.
The next interruption was from her mother, calling to say that neither she nor Blythe's father would be at home to dinner to-night, as they had met an old friend who was leaving town at midnight and wanted them to dine with him at his hotel so they could have an old-time visit.
"Why don't you call Dan and ask him over to dinner with you to-night? That will probably just fit in with his plans," said her mother.
"No," said Blythe sharply. "I don't want to, Mother. I've got letters to write and a lot of other things to do. I'll be all right, and I'll tell Susan. You needn't worry. What's one dinner, after all? And I'm tired, I really am. Have a good time, Mother dear." Then Blythe went back to her pleasant thoughts and her first happy letter.
It was five minutes of six when the telephone rang again and Blythe flew to answer, sure now it must be Charlie. But instead she heard Dan Seaver's angry voice.
"What in the name of time is the matter with you, Bly? Can't go? Of course you can go! I've been planning to take you to this picture for weeks. You know I've spoken of it several times."
"Oh," said Blythe, "I'm sorry, Dan, to disappoint you, but you said nothing about going to-night, and I really can't do it. I made other plans!"
"Plans! Plans! What are your plans? Change them, then! Call off whatever you've promised to do. This comes first, and I won't take no for an answer."
Blythe drew a weary little sigh and looked with anguished eyes toward the clock. Suppose Charlie should call now? It might be likely. It would be so near the dinner hour, surely his train would stop somewhere at this time, or would it?
Her mind was turning this subject over and over while she tried to be half listening to Dan and wondering what she could say to him that would make him understand she meant what she said and that she was not available this evening for anything
