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SISSfifS'
The landlord stood in the doorway,
flourishing a napkin. The Invitation
was bo obvious that they looked at
each other and laughed, and then sat
down.
They exchahged confidences. Her
name was Doris, and she had no rela-i
tives in the world. She had come to
the city five years before with no
training except a knowledge of ste
nography, and she had nothing to
look forward to.
And somehow the man found him
self telling her of his Own "hopes; the
boyhood dreams, the man's disillu
sionment, the realization that youth
had slipped away and left him, ap
proaching middle age, with nothing
accomplished.
Their eyes told more than their
tongues. Their hands met across the
table. It was an instinctive greeting
of fellowship. Each knew that the
loneliness in his own heart was shar
ed by the other.
If the landlord saw that greeting,
he turned discreetly away, for he had
been young once, and he knew that
in spring one does many foolish
things.
Then lingered in the sunny lane,
sauntering under the budding trees.
The sun dipped down. At last they
awakened to the realization that
their day was slipping away. And,
silent now, they walked back through
the field, side by Bide, toward the car
line.
The man turned to her. "I want to
ask you something," he said. "How is
it that you have never married?"
The crimson dyed her cheeks.
"It was impertinent of me " he
began repentantly.
"No," Bhe answerea nurneaiy. "I'll
tell you. I suppose love seems a tri- ,
vial thing to many people. It was
never so to me. I was in love when
I was a girl before I came to the
city. I thought he loved me. I was
going to wait for him. He married
another. That is all."
"And then?" he asked gently.
She shrugged her' shoulders. .
Then? she answered. "Why, is not'
that enough! I had my disillusion-
ment But how about yourself? " she"
cried suddenly. "How about you "
"Why I guess it is about the same
story with me," he replied, in em
barrassment. And the car came up inexorably.1
They entered.
It rushed through the pleasant
countryside, now touched with, thef
shadows Of evening, bearing them
back to town. The city appeared up-
on the horizon. Then a wilderness
of drab, unlovely houses began to'
spread about them. And they knew
that their day was ended.
"I shall see you again?" he asked,t
as the car traversed the sordid'
RfcrG&tfi
"I don't know why?" said the girl
hurriedly. "Because," he said slowly, "I think
I have made a good deal of a fool of
myself. You see, when I lost her, I
came to about the same conclusion
that you did. I never had the nature
to lay hold of life. I think one must
'seize what it offers, and not spend it
in vain regrets. Don't you?"
"Perhaps," she answered, digging"
the point of her parasol into the noor4
of the car.
"I had been coming slowly to that
belief. But it needed two things to
assure me that it was true."
"What were they?" asked the girl.
But she did not look up.
"Qh, the spring, I think," he an
swered, laughing for the first time 6n
the return journey. "I am sure it was '
the spring. It reminded me of other
springs."
"Yes, but the other?" asked the
girl.
"Why you," he answered. "This
has been the happiest day of my
life." He took her hands in his.
"I don't want to make the same
blunder always," he said. "I Want a
chance to seize happiness when it of
fers. I want to to see you in the
city. Mayl?" 4 !
in, uu was in her cheeks agahii..
