"You make me very happy by taking them," he answered with a wealth of

meaning.

Anna, who had gone to the storeroom for some apples, after her

reconciliation with Mrs. Bartlett, returned to find Sanderson talking

earnestly to Kate by the window. Kate held up the roses for Anna to

smell. "Aren't they lovely, Anna? There is nothing like roses for

taking the edge off a snowstorm."

Anna was forced to go through the farce of admiring them, while

Sanderson looked on with nicely concealed amusement.

"Well, what do you think of them, Anna?" said Kate, disappointed that

she made no comment.

"The best thing about roses, speaking generally, Miss Kate, is that

they fade quickly and do not embarrass one by outliving the little

affairs in which they have played a part." She returned Sanderson's

languid glance in a way that made him quail.

"That is quite true," said Kate, being in the humor for a little

cynicism. "What a pity that love letters can't be constructed on the

same principle."

Sanderson did not feel particularly at ease while these two young women

served and returned cynicism; he was accordingly much relieved when

Mrs. Bartlett and Anna both left the room, intent on the solemn

ceremony of opening a new supply of preserved peaches.

"Kate, did you mean what you just said to that girl?" Sanderson asked

when they were alone.

"What did I say? Oh, yes, about the love letters. Well, what

difference does it make whether I meant it or not?"

"It makes all the difference in the world to me, Kate." He read

refusal in the big blue eyes, and he made haste to plead his cause

before she could say anything.

"Don't answer yet, Kate; don't give me my life-sentence," he said

playfully, taking her hand. "Think it over; take as long as you like.

Hope with you is better than certainty with any other woman."

Professor Sterling, who had been to a neighboring town on business for

the past two or three days, walked into the middle of this little

tableau in time to hear the last sentence. Kate and Sanderson had

failed to hear him, partly because he had neglected to remove his

overshoes, and partly because they were deeply engrossed with each

other.

Though his rival's declaration, which he had every reason to suppose

would be accepted, was the death blow to his hopes, yet he unselfishly

stepped out into the snow, waited five minutes by his watch--a liberal

allowance for an acceptance, he considered--and then rapped loud and

theatrically before entering a second time. Could unselfishness go

further?




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