tenderly, wondering why he felt no passion, afraid that he would.
“Good-by, Cynthia dear,” he whispered. Her hands fluttered helplessly about his coat lapels and then fell to her side. She managed a brave little smile. “Good-by—honey.”
Carl rushed up with the bag. “Gosh, Hugh, you Ve got to hurry; they’re closing the gate.” He gripped his hand for a second. “Visit me at Bar Harbor this summer if you can.”
“Sure. Good-by, old man. Good-by Cynthia.”
“Good-by-—good-by.”
Hugh slipped through the gate and turned to wave at Carl and Cynthia. They waved back, and then he ran for the train.
On the long trip to Haydensville Hugh relaxed. Now that the strain was over, he felt suddenly weak, but it was sweet weakness. He could gradu¬ ate in peace now. The visit to New York had been worth while. And what do you know, bump¬ ing into old Carl like that! Cynthia and he were friends, too, the best friends in the world, but she no longer wanted to marry him. That was fine. . . . He remembered the picture she and* Carl had made standing on the other side of the gate from him. “What a peach of a pair. Golly, would n’t it be funny if they hit it off . .
He thought over every word that he and Cyn¬ thia had said. She certainly had been square all
