bridge, she must establish a practical basis of friendship with him. Surely the careless postcard with a message dashed off across its face, for the world to read, would act as a sort of forerunner of her intentions.
Queer how often Felix was in her thoughts that summer. How persistently she had to crowd him out on the occasions when she was idle. Again and again she saw him standing big and stooped and helpless—a tragic figure—alone in his bare, lonely room, with the yellow sunset behind him, and the box between them, like something deformed, his love for her had brought forth.
She hadn't shown the box to her mother and father. She had hidden it in an empty drawer. It was impossible for her to talk about Felix to any one. She had exchanged with the other girls in the party all sorts of confidences about other affairs—about other love affairs. She had had her share since she had come out. But always she had kept Felix buried, and her feelings about him imprisoned, like the box. Well, she wouldn't, once she was home! Feelings, unlike the box, were alive, and live things shut up in the dark fretted and gnawed. She would let them out. She would let Felix out.
It was with this idea in view that Sheilah recognized Felix openly as her friend when she returned to Wallbridge in the late summer. She re-
