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The evening passed away with songs, games, and recitations, and it was nearly eleven o’clock when the young people began to wander off toward home in pairs. Albert and Maud were among the first of the young folks to bid the rest good-night.

The night was clear and keen but perfectly still, and the young people, arm in arm, walked slowly homeward under the bare maples, in delicious companionship. Albert held Maud’s arm close to his side.

“Are you cold?” he asked, in a low voice.

“No, thank you; the night is lovely,” she replied; then added, with a sigh, “I don’t like sociables so well as I used to–they tire me out.”

“We stayed too long.”

“It wasn’t that; I’m getting so they seem kind o’ silly.”

“Well, I feel a little that way myself,” he confessed.

“But there is so little to see here in Tyre at any time–no music, no theatres. I like theatres, don’t you?”

“I can’t go half enough.”

“But nothing worth seeing ever comes into these little towns–and then we’re all so poor, anyway.”

The lamp, turned low, was emitting a terrible odor as they entered the sitting-room.

“My goodness! it’s almost twelve o’clock! Good-night!” She held out her hand.

“Good-night!” he said, taking it, and giving it a cordial pressure which she remembered long.

“Good-night!” she repeated, softly, going up the stairs.

Hartley, who came in a few minutes later, found his partner sitting thoughtfully by the fire, with his coat and shoes off, evidently in deep abstraction.

“Well, I got away at last–much as ever. Great scheme, that sociable, eh? I saw your little girl introducing you right and left.”

“Say, Hartley, I wish you’d leave her out of this thing; I don’t like the way you speak of her when–“

“Phew! You don’t? Oh, all right! I’m mum as an oyster–only keep it up! Get into all the church sociables you can; there’s nothing like it.”

* * * * *

Hartley soon had canvassers out along the country roads, and was working every house in town. The campaign promised to lengthen into a month–perhaps longer. Albert especially became a great favorite. Every one declared there had never been such book agents in the town. “They’re such gentlemanly fellows. They don’t press anybody to buy. They don’t rush about and ‘poke their noses where they’re not wanted.’ They are more like merchants with books to sell.” The only person who failed to see the attraction in them was Ed Brann, who was popularly supposed to be engaged to Maud. He grew daily more sullen and repellent, toward Albert noticeably so.

One evening about six, after coming in from a long walk about town, Albert entered his room without lighting his lamp, lay down on the bed, and fell asleep. He had been out late the night before with Maud at a party, and slumber came almost instantly.

Maud came in shortly, hearing no response to her knock, and after hanging some towels on the rack went out without seeing the sleeper. In the sitting-room she met Ed Brann. He was a stalwart young man with curling black hair, and a heavy face at its best, but set and sullen now. His first words held a menace:

“Say, Maud, I want t’ talk to you.”

“Very well; what is it, Ed?” replied the girl, quietly.

“I want to know how often you’re going to be out till twelve o’clock with this book agent?”

Perhaps it was the derisive inflection on “book agent” that woke Albert. Brann’s tone was brutal–more brutal even than his words, and the girl turned pale and her breath quickened.

“Why, Ed, what’s the matter?”

“Matter is just this: you ain’t got any business goin’ around with that feller with my ring on your finger, that’s all.” He ended with an unmistakable threat in his voice.

“Very well,” said the girl, after a pause, curiously quiet; “then I won’t; here’s your ring.”