“Your age.”

“Oh! My ageďż˝ . And pretty?”

“The world thinks so.”

“Oh! And what do you think, Euan?”

“Yes, she is pretty,” said I carelessly.

There was a long silence. I sat there, my knees gathered in my arms, staring up at the stars.

Then, faintly came her voice:

“Good-night, Euan.”

I rose, laid hold of the willow bush that scraped my shoulders, felt over it until I found the dangling broken branch; stepped forward, groping, until I touched the next broken branch. Then, knowing I was on my trail, I turned around