called into a room one by one and cross-examined by the assembly, whose duty it was to establish the identity of the partners by eliciting descriptive details in three queries. Phœbe, by some miracle, had drawn the slip bearing Paul's name, as he guessed from a sudden demure glance she directed at him, and he waited with studied negligence and wild pulses.
"What colour is his hair?" inquired the first questioner in the circle, as the assembly sucked their lead pencils in anticipation of guessing the name.
"Black," Phœbe promptly replied.
"What colour are his eyes?" demanded the next.
Phœbe was lost. She had to think. "Uh—blue. I'm not sure," she finally pronounced.
Paul's eyes were black as coals, but the vicissitudes of childhood had already inured him to the pain of wounded vanity, and his adoration was proof against his goddess's carelessness in matters of observation. Besides, from her pew she saw more of the back of his head than she did of his face. He quite forgave her shortcoming when, at the close of the game, she evinced no reluctance at joining hands with him for the "Ring around the Rosy." The outstanding fact was that she had avoided Walter, and yet Walter could smile confidently when Gritty spoke of Phœbe as his girl. The world was like that.
The night before the Sunday-school picnic Walter told Paul of a rose garden which flourished in the Ashmill grounds. He proposed that they make a raid on it. "Girls like 'em," Walter said vaguely. Paul waived his scruples in the excitement of adventure, and they set forth.
"You go and get 'em," Walter suggested when they stood before the Ashmill cedar hedge. "I'll be sentinel."
This was an irregular suggestion, since Walter had proposed the expedition. But Paul made no demur, lest Walter should suspect that he dreaded the dark. Walter
