Athalie

He really meant to call on her some day and talk things over. But

days, and weeks, and finally months slipped away. And somehow, in

thinking of her and of his promise, there now seemed very little left

for them to talk about. After all they had said to each other nearly

all there was to be said, there on the Elevated platform that April

morning. Besides he had so many, many things to do; so many pleasures

promised and accepted, visits to college friends, a fishing trip with

his father,--really there seemed to be no hour in the long vacation

unengaged.

He always wanted to see her when he thought of her; he really meant to

find a moment to do it, too. But there seemed to be no moment

suitable.

Even when he was back in Cambridge he thought about her occasionally,

and planned, vaguely, a trip to New York so that he might redeem his

promise to her.

He took it out in thinking.

At Christmas, however, he sent her a wrist-watch, a dainty French

affair of gold and enamel; and a contrite note excusing himself for

the summer delinquencies and renewing his promise to call on her.

The Dead Letter Office returned watch and letter.