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 it was over, what did it amount to? He could not recall that he had done anything very remarkable. In fact it appeared to him that he had missed most of his opportunities.

"I did my level best, though," he muttered half aloud; and with that he tried to dismiss foot-ball from his mind.

There was one thought, however, that kept coming up over and over—had she seen the game? But why should he care? He would never see those grey eyes again; what right had he to think of them at all. To-morrow morning he would have put everything behind him; he would be on his way to the West, to the dreary, flat country, to the little one-horse town, to the smell of ham and cinnamon in the store fronting the half-deserted square.

As he remembered this, he wrinkled his brows; and tried to draw a mental picture of Mabel Van Clees, with almost a prayer in his heart that the image would thrill him, or at least would comfort him. At last he succeeded, but the result was not satisfactory.

He could see Miss Van Clees standing before the bureau in the sitting-room, her weak little mouth pursed into a self-contented smile as