We went on; she one side of the road—­I the other, and about three yards in advance of her.  By-and-bye, when we had proceeded in utter silence for a quarter of a mile, my companion said, demurely: 

“Roy, you can get over the fence, and go in the field; and I will keep the road.”

The little jade was quizzing me.  I could not endure her ridicule, so forthwith I made a sort of flying leap to her side of the street, spattering the mud in every direction as I alighted beside her.  I had just begun to think how much better the footing was on that sidewalk than the one I had just left, when I heard somebody whistling, and, looking up, I saw Will Richardson, a mutual acquaintance, approaching.  The cold perspiration started to my brow—­how could I endure to be seen going home with a girl?  I could not!  No, never!  The idea was out of the question!  I flew to the wall, sprang over, and threw myself down behind a pile of stones.

I heard Will and Florence laughing together in a vastly amused way—­and then she took his arm, and off they went!  I shook my clenched hand after them; at that moment, I think I could have cudgeled Will without compunction.

The ridiculous story of my adventure got wind; no doubt Will spread it, and I was the laughing stock of the village.  My mother gave me a sound berating, and my staid, punctilious father administered the severest rebuke of all—­he said I was a disgrace to my ancestors.

I managed to live through it, though, and a few months later entered college.  I will not linger on the days spent with my Alma Mater; the history of the scrapes which my mischief-loving fellow students got me into during those four years, would fill three volumes of octavo.

At the end of the prescribed time, I graduated with the highest honors, for I had always been a most determined bookworm; and, with my diploma in my pocket, I returned home.

My friends were rejoiced to see me, they said; aunt Alice informed me that I had improved wonderfully in manners, as well as looks; she thought me decidedly handsome, she said, which remark, I privately concluded, was the most sensible of any I had ever heard her make.

The day following my arrival at home, my mother spoke of Florence.  I had been longing to ask about her, but dared not hazard the question.  My mother thought that I ought to call on the Hay family, we had always been intimate, she said, and it would be no more than courteous for me to surprise them with my presence.

I told her the truth.  I should be extremely happy to do so, but I lacked the courage.

“Mother,” said I, frankly, “you know my cardinal failing.  Be merciful unto me.  I should only make a fool of myself.”

“I will make an errand for you,” she replied, quickly; “Mrs. Hay is troubled with a cough, and she wanted some of my tomato preserves for it.  You shall carry them over.”

Ah! it takes a woman to manage things; depend on that.