They had walked silently along the country road
to the woods that skirted the town. An early frost
had already touched the foliage with scarlet and
orange. They sat down on a fallen log, and Hugh
gazed at a radiant maple-tree.
Helen let her hand drop lightly on his. “Think¬ ing of me?” she asked softly.
Hugh squeezed her hand. “Yes,” he whispered, and looked at the ground while he scuffed some fallen leaves with the toe of his shoe.
“I am going to miss you, Hughie—oh, awfully. Are you going to miss me?”
He held her hand tightly and said nothing. He was aware only of her hand. His throat seemed to be stopped, choked with something.
A bird that should have been on its way south chirped from a tree near by. The sound made Hugh look up. He noticed that the shadows were lengthening. He and Helen would have to start back pretty soon or he would be late for dinner. There was still packing to do; his mother had said that his father wanted to have a talk with him— and through all his thoughts there ran like a fiery red line the desire to kiss the girl whose hand was clasped in his.
He turned slightly toward her. “Hughie,” she whispered and moved close to him. His heart stopped as he loosened her hand from his and put
