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FLAMING

YOUTH

“Take me down to the village with you, Mr. Scott?” “Indeed I will.” She jumped in. “I don’t want te go to the village,” said she in quite a different tone, as the car took the curve. “I want to talk.” “It’s a worthy ambition. SodoI. Where shall we go?” “Anywhere.” He whirled the car around an abrupt corner and headed for the open country.

“I cried that night after the concert,” Pat informed him. She was staring straight in front of her. “My dear!” he murmured. “I’m not your dear.” “No. You’re not. I must remember that.” “Not a bit—to-day. I’ve had time to think.” “So have I.” She whirled on him. “Have you changed, too?” she demanded with animation and dismay, quaintly negligent of the implied inconsistency. “No. I haven’t changed.” “T’m glad,” said she naively. Then, stealing a glance at him, “Do you still like me—a little?”

A little? How much did he “like” this bewitching child? Was “like” a sufficient word at all for the feeling which had taken such puzzling growth within him? He could not have answered the query to himself satisfactorily, and had no intention of defining his attitude. for her benefit. “Tell me,” she whispered. “I think you might.” “J have many things to tell you, little Pat,” he replied with his foreign precision of speech; “but that is not one

of them.”
 * Tt’s the one I want to hear,” said willful Pat.

“First, do you tell me: why did you cry that night?” “Conscience.

No,”

she contradicted

herself thought-