all over the small house—­and its one veranda—­from eight in the morning until hours of the night long after their mothers (in Mr. Parcher’s opinion) should have sent their fathers to march them home.  Upon Mr. Parcher’s optimism the effect of so much unavoidable observation of young love had been fatal; he declared repeatedly that his faith in the human race was about gone.  Furthermore, his physical constitution had proved pathetically vulnerable to nightly quartets, quintets, and even octets, on the porch below his bedchamber window, so that he was wont to tell his wife that never, never could he expect to be again the man he had been in the spring before Miss Pratt came to visit May.  And, referring to conversations which he almost continuously overheard, perforce, Mr. Parcher said that if this was the way he talked at that age, he would far prefer to drown in an ordinary fountain, and be dead and done with it, than to bathe in Ponce de Leon’s.

Altogether, the summer had been a severe one; he doubted that he could have survived much more of it.  And now that it was virtually over, at last, he was so resigned to the departure of his daughter’s lovely little friend that he felt no regret for the splurge with which her visit was closing.  Nay, to speed the parting guest—­such was his lavish mood—­twice and thrice over would he have paid for the lights, the flowers, the music, the sandwiches, the coffee, the chicken salad, the cake, the lemonade-punch, and the ice-cream.

Thus did the one thought divide itself between William and Mr. Parcher, keeping itself deep and pure under all their other thoughts.  “Miss Pratt is going away!” thought William and Mr. Parcher.  “Miss Pratt is going away—­to-morrow!”

The unuttered words advanced tragically toward the gate in the head of William at the same time that they moved contentedly away in the head of Mr. Parcher; for Mr. Parcher caught sight of his wife just then, and went to join her as she sank wearily upon the front steps.

“Taking a rest for a minute?” he inquired.  “By George! we’re both entitled to a good long rest, after to-night!  If we could afford it, we’d go away to a quiet little sanitarium in the hills, somewhere, and—­” He ceased to speak and there was the renewal of an old bitterness in his expression as his staring eyes followed the movements of a stately young form entering the gateway.  “Look at it!” said Mr. Parcher in a whisper.  “Just look at it!”

“Look at what?” asked his wife.

“That Baxter boy!” said Mr. Parcher, as William passed on toward the dancers.  “What’s he think he’s imitating—­Henry Irving?  Look at his walk!”

“He walks that way a good deal, lately, I’ve noticed,” said Mrs. Parcher in a tired voice.  “So do Joe Bullitt and—­”

“He didn’t even come to say good evening to you,” Mr. Parcher interrupted.  “Talk about Manners, nowadays!  These young—­”