"It was a profane kind of thing," she said, sadly. "Don't you see, Arthur?"

"If I'm such a sinner, I don't see why you have anything to do with me."

It stirred her profoundly that he didn't laugh, scoff at her; she had feared he might. She answered, very gravely:

"It's because I like you. You don't think it's a pleasure to me to find fault with you, do you Arthur?"

"Then why find fault?" he asked good-naturedly.

"But if the faults are THERE?" she persevered.

"Let's forget about 'em, then," he answered with cheerful logic.

"Everybody can't be good like YOU, you know."

Missy felt nonplussed, though subtly pleased, in a way. Arthur DID admire her, thought her "good"--perhaps, in time she could be a good influence to him. But at a loss just how to answer his personal allusion, she glanced backward over her shoulder. In the moonlight she saw a tall man back there in the distance.

There was a little pause.

"I don't s'pose you'll be going to the Library again to-morrow night?"

suggested Arthur presently.

"Why, I don't know--why?" But she knew "why," and her knowledge gave her a tingle.

"Oh, I was just thinking that if you had to look up some references or something, maybe I might drop around again."

"Maybe I WILL have to--I don't know just yet," she murmured, confused with a sweet kind of confusion.

"Well, I'll just drop by, anyway," he said. "Maybe you'll be there."

"Yes, maybe."

Another pause. Trying to think of something to say, she glanced again over her shoulder. Then she clutched at Arthur's arm.

"Look at that man back there--following us! He looks something like father!"

As she spoke she unconsciously quickened her pace; Arthur consciously quickened his. He knew--as all of the boys of "the crowd" knew--Mr.

Merriam's stand on the matter of beaux.

"Oh!" cried Missy under her breath. She fancied that the tall figure had now accelerated his gait, also. "It IS father! I'll cut across this vacant lot and get in at the kitchen door--I can beat him home that way!"

Arthur started to turn into the vacant lot with her, but she gave him a little push.

"No! no! It's just a little way--I won't be afraid. You'd better run, Arthur--he might kill you!"

Arthur didn't want to be killed. "So long, then--let me know how things come out!"--and he disappeared fleetly down the block.

Missy couldn't make such quick progress; the vacant lot had been a cornfield, and the stubby ground was frozen into hard, sharp ridges under the snow. She stumbled, felt her shoes filling with snow, stumbled on, fell down, felt her stocking tear viciously. She glanced over her shoulder--had the tall figure back there on the sidewalk slowed down, too, or was it only imagination? She scrambled to her feet and hurried on--and HE seemed to be hurrying again. She had no time, now, to be afraid of the vague terrors of night; her panic was perfectly and terribly tangible. She MUST get home ahead of father.

Blindly she stumbled on.

At the kitchen door she paused a moment to regain her breath; then, very quietly, she entered. There was a light in the kitchen and she could hear mother doing something in the pantry. She sniffed at the air and called cheerily:

"Been popping corn?"

"Yes," came mother's voice, rather stiffly. "Seems to me you've been a long time finding out about those lessons!"

Not offering to debate that question, nor waiting to appease her sudden craving for pop-corn, Missy moved toward the door.

"Get your wet shoes off at once!" called mother.

"That's just what I was going to do." And she hurried up the back stairs, unb.u.t.toning b.u.t.tons as she went.

Presently, in her night-dress and able to breathe naturally again, she felt safer. But she decided she'd better crawl into bed. She lay there, listening. It must have been a half-hour later when she heard a cab stop in front of the house, and then the slam of the front door and the sound of father's voice. He had just come in on the 9:23--THAT hadn't been him, after all!

As relief stole over her, drowsiness tugged at her eyelids. But, just as she was dozing off, she was roused by someone's entering the room, bending over her.

"Asleep?"

It was father! Her first sensation was of fear, until she realized his tone was not one to be feared. And, responding to that tenderness of tone, sharp compunctions p.r.i.c.ked her. Dear father!--it was horrible to have to deceive him.

"I've brought you a little present from town." He was lighting the gas.

"Here!"

Her blinking eyes saw him place a big flat box on the bed. She fumbled at the cords, accepted his proffered pen-knife, and then--oh, dear heaven! There, fluffy, snow-white and alluring, reposed a set of white fox furs!

"S-sh!" he admonished, smiling. "Mother doesn't know about them yet."

"Oh, father!" She couldn't say any more. And the father, smiling at her, thought he understood the emotions which tied her tongue, which underlay her fervent good night kiss. But he could never have guessed all the love, grat.i.tude, repentance, self-abas.e.m.e.nt and high resolves at that moment welling within her.

He left her sitting up there in bed, her fingers still caressing the silky treasure. As soon as he was gone, she climbed out of bed to kneel in repentant humility.

"Dear Jesus," she prayed, "please forgive me for deceiving my dear father and mother. If you'll forgive me just this once, I promise never, never to deceive them again."

Then, feeling better--prayer, when there is real faith, does lift a load amazingly--she climbed back into bed, with the furs on her pillow.

But she could not sleep. That was natural--so much had happened, and everything seemed so complicated. Everything had been seeming to go against her and here, all of a sudden, everything had turned out her way. She had her white fox furs, much prettier than Genevieve Hicks's--oh, she DID hope they'd let her go to church next Sunday night so she could wear them! And she'd had a serious little talk with Arthur--the way seemed paved for her to exert a really satisfactory influence over him. As soon as she could see him again--Oh, she wished she might wear the furs to the Library to-morrow night! She wished Arthur could see her in them--

A sudden thought brought her up sharp: she couldn't meet him to-morrow night after all--for she never wanted to deceive dear father again. No, she would never sneak off like that any more. Yet it wouldn't be fair to Arthur to let him go there and wait in vain. She ought to let him know, some way. And she ought to let him know, too, that that man wasn't father, after all. What if he was worrying, this minute, thinking she might have been caught and punished. It didn't seem right, while SHE was so happy, to leave poor Arthur worrying like that... Oh, she DID wish he could see her in the furs... Yes, she OUGHT to tell him she couldn't keep the "date"--it would be awful for him to sit there in the Library, waiting and waiting...

She kept up her disturbed ponderings until the house grew dark and still. Then, very quietly, she crept out of bed and dressed herself in the dark. She put on her cloak and hat. After a second's hesitation she added the white fox furs. Then, holding her breath, she stole down the back stairs and out the kitchen door.

The night seemed more fearsomely spectral than ever--it must be terribly late; but she sped through the white silence resolutely. She was glad Arthur's boarding-house was only two blocks away. She knew which was his window; she stood beneath it and softly gave "the crowd's" whistle.

Waited--whistled again. There was his window going up at last. And Arthur's tousled head peering out.

"I just wanted to let you know I can't come to the Library after all, Arthur! No!--Don't say anything, now!--I'll explain all about it when I get a chance. And that wasn't father--it turned out all right. No, no!--Don't say anything now! Maybe I'll be in the kitchen to-morrow.

Good night!"

Then, while Arthur stared after her amazedly, she turned and scurried like a scared rabbit through the white silence.