Bright Arrows (Musaicum Romance Classics). Grace Livingston Hill

know it. I ask your pardon for barging in this way. I'm sorry! Was he sick for long? Somebody ought to have told me. But I really haven't seen anybody from over this way in a long time. I hope you'll understand. Of course, I don't suppose you feel like having fun right away. I understand. Perhaps you'd rather I didn't come over to-day."

      "Oh, no, I'd like to see you," said Eden gravely. "I have been wondering what had become of you. Nobody seemed to know."

      "Okay, I'll be over for a little while. Bye-bye!"

      Eden dropped back on her pillows and lay there staring up at the ceiling. Was that really her old friend Caspar? How strangely different he seemed. Even after she had told him of her father's death his voice was hard and unsympathetic. The words were all right, but he sounded as if he were in a world that was not hers. Of course, that was what people were saying war did to the boys, though some that she knew had come home quite changed in another way, more reliable, more gentle, and sometimes grave.

      Well, but this wasn't fair to Caspar. Judging him before she had really seen him at all. It would be natural that one would change to some degree when taken out of a home environment and put among a lot of tough fellows. Although, of course, they were not all tough. Well, she would put such thoughts aside and try to wait until he came, and then perhaps she wouldn't feel he was changed so much after all.

      But as she rose and went about the matter of dressing, the brief conversation over the telephone kept lingering in her mind. The way Caspar had spoken of her father, so disrespectfully, suggested that she get out from under his care. How terrible for him to speak that way! Why, he used always to admire her father, to look up to him! And her father had always been so nice and kind to Caspar. Had he forgotten all that? Didn't he remember how her father had gone with him to see the man at the apartment house after he broke two of their windows in the basement, and paid for the windows, and then let Caspar pay him five cents a week out of his allowance until it was all paid for? And Caspar had been so pleased and had understood why Dad didn't pay it himself, because it wouldn't be good for Caspar to get away without paying for his own carelessness. Caspar used to be such an understanding boy. Oh, he couldn't have changed that way. He used to come to Dad for help in things instead of going to his own father, because his own father simply got angry with him and took away his allowance for a while. Well, anyway, she mustn't judge Caspar until she saw him face-to-face and talked with him, and found out whether he was really the fine, upstanding boy he used to be in the days when she thought he was everything a young man should be.

      Of course, she had been much upset that he hadn't written to her as he had promised to do, but she had excused that because she knew Capsar hated to write letters. And gradually she had learned to forget the heartaches that had come at first after he went away, and told herself that she was too young to break her heart because of a schoolboy who had forgotten to write letters when he was off fighting battles. And so the days had gone by and the memory of Caspar had gently faded from her thoughts. And now suddenly, with the sound of his voice, the whole vision of his handsome, vivacious face, his fine flashing eyes, his alluring smile came over her, and in spite of all her common sense and her definite resolutions that she was done with Caspar, she couldn't help an excitement thrilling in her veins. Somehow it was great to have her old friend coming back just when she was sad and lonely over the loss of her dear father. She hurried in her dressing to be ready when he should arrive. If he had not much time, she must be ready to see him at once, and of course she must hurry down and tell Janet that he was coming and would likely stay to lunch.

      Then right in the midst of her thoughts the telephone rang again.

      "Hello, Eden, this is Cappie again. I'm sorry as the dickens, but I find I'll not be able to come this morning. I've just met some old friends, and they are determined I shall go to lunch with them. One of them is my old buddy in the army, and he's going back overseas to-night, so you see, I've simply got to stay with him and see him off."

      "Oh!" said Eden coldly. "Then I'm not to see you at all. Is that what you mean? Well, I'm sorry, but of course it's all right."

      "Oh, no, I didn't mean that," said the young man amusedly. "You didn't think I'd come all the way down from New York just to see you, and then go off without seeing you, did you?"

      "It sounded like that," said Eden with dignity.

       "Well, I always was a bungler when it came to talking. Of course I'll be around as soon as he leaves. I haven't found out what train he takes yet, but I'll be seeing you. How about early this evening?"

      "But I thought you wanted to go dancing," she said sweetly. "Don't let me hinder you."

      "Oh, see here now, that's all off. Of course I wouldn't expect you to go out having fun when you had just had a death in the family. I'm not that crude. And I certainly do want to see you like the dickens. I've been thinking about you all the way home. Yes, I'm all kinds of sorry I had to meet up with this buddy of mine and be hindered in coming directly to you. But you see, I kind of felt under obligation to him on account of things he did for me when I was wounded. But say, are you going to be in this evening?"

      "Why, yes, I think I probably shall. Yes, of course, come when it's convenient to you. I'll be very glad to see you." But her tone was cool.

      "All righty, I'll be there, and I'm just crazy to see you."

      So with a hasty "So long," Caspar hung up, and Eden went back to her precious letters.

      The last letters of Mrs. Thurston were written from a hospital. They were full of tender love for her husband and anxious premonitions for her little Eden. And now Eden could read between the lines and sense that her mother knew that her health was in danger and that she might soon be taken away.

      There were only a few letters left now, and her heart was longing to read them all and get to know this mother who had gone from her so long ago that she could not remember anything about her but a vague lovely face and a gentle touch.

      Curiously enough, the last three letters were filled with a kind of exultant joy in her husband and an overwhelming longing that her little girl might grow up in such a wonderful life as hers had been. And in one letter she said:

      I have been praying lately that our little Eden when she grows up may find as fine a man as you are, my beloved. I have been praying much about that and hoping that as she grows up we may be able to teach her that she must take time to be sure about choosing a mate. That she must not be taken by the first handsome face, or a man with wonderful manners, or social standing, or riches, or honor, or physical charm. She must wait and be sure before she joins her life with another life. I shall try with all my heart to make her understand what real love is and that she must not hastily fancy herself in love with somebody who may turn out to be utterly selfish and bring her nothing but sorrow. Oh, I pray that may never be for my little rosebud of a girl. A girl that has such a wonderful father as my beloved should also have just such a wonderful husband.

      And now the letters brought a new note, a foreshadowing of change, as if the mother was trying to prepare her dear ones for her going.

      In the very last letter she said:

      And if it should be that I may have to leave our baby girl before it is time to make her understand how important it is that she should choose the right companion for life, I am asking you, my beloved husband, that you will tell her most carefully, warn her, impress upon her that she must go cautiously and not think of marrying anyone whom she does not love implicitly. And even then, she must not accept love that is not from a man who is good and right and true.

      Eden sat for a long time, reading that letter over again, and looking off out of the window, thinking. And then the vision of the handsome boy who had been Caspar Carvel came to her questioningly. Suddenly she realized that when Caspar went away to war she had looked upon him as a man she would eventually fall in love with. Not that he had ever said a word of any such thing to her, or that she had ever put such a thought into logical form even in her own mind, but she had viewed him in her innocent thoughts as a young man who would someday be a friend of whom to be proud. That was how she put it. And why, now, since this brief talk over the telephone, should there be any question in her mind of his suitability as her close friend? She couldn't quite tell, but the very