time," said Jack, offering his second gift.

"How did you know my size?" asked Kitty, putting on the gloves in a
hurry; for though Jack had called her "dear" for years, the little
word had a new sound to-night.

"I guessed,--no, I didn't, I had the old ones with me; they are no
good now, are they?" and too honest to lie, Jack tried to speak
carelessly, though he turned red in the dusk, well knowing that the
dirty little gloves were folded away in his left breast-pocket at that
identical moment.

"Oh, dear, no! these fit nicely. I'm ready, if you don't mind going
with such a fright," said Kitty, forgetting her dread of seeing people
in her desire to get away from that room, because for the first time
in her life she wasn't at ease with Jack.

"I think I like the little gray moth better than the fine butterfly,"
returned Jack, who, in spite of his invitation, seemed to find
"moping" rather pleasant.

"You are a rainy-day friend, and he isn't," said Kitty, softly, as she
drew him away.

Jack's only answer was to lay his hand on the little white glove
resting so confidingly on his arm, and, keeping it there, they roamed
away into the summer twilight.

Something had happened to the evening and the place, for both seemed
suddenly endowed with uncommon beauty and interest. The dingy old