familiar, brown-eyed, flushed, and greeting him with a friendly smile that waited to be remembered. She stood in the sunlight, her hands clasped behind her, her eyes dark in the shadow of the brim of her hat, her teeth white in the light; and the adorable dimple in either cheek deepened when she saw that he did not recognise her.
She laughed. A blind memory groped and moved in his brain, and a rush of blood flamed over his face. The dog was barking among the trees. She turned and called in that direction: "He doesn't remember me!"
He knew then. It was "Miss Margaret!"
He started to get up, catching at his books as they slipped from his knees, and fumbling for his pocket as he tried to put away his lead pencil. Remember her? The realization that this smiling young woman was his "Miss Margaret" had come on him with such a shock that he did not know what he was about. In a sort of bewildered double-consciousness, he watched his hands trying to pick up the scattered volumes. Miss Margaret! And then he came suddenly into clear possession of his senses, and stood up with a tremulous smile, a book in one hand and his pencil in the other. "Yes, I do," he said huskily. "You're Miss Margaret."
"How did you know?" she cried, beaming on him. "By the photograph? Have I changed?"
The excitement in her eyes was catching. He stammered, with a broken laugh: "N—no. You took it away—the photograph. I haven't any."
"Oh yes!" she recollected. "I thought ...
