"Why, that depends. It's got plenty of po-ten-ti-al-i-ty if you give it its old sig-nif-i-ca-tion."
"Well, I do—every bit of it! Do you, Miss Barb—to me?"
She gave such answer with her steady eyes that her questioner's mind would have lost its balance had she not smiled so lightly.
"Still," he responded, "good-by is such unclaimed property that I want another word to sort o' fence it in, you know."
The maiden only looked more amused than before.
"I don't want it to mean too much, you understand," explained he. The hand in his grew heavier, but his grasp tightened on it. "Yet don't you think these last three days' companionship deserves a word of its own? Miss Barb, you've been—and in my memory you will be henceforth—a crystalline delight! The word's not mine, it's from one of my mother's sweetest things. Can't I say good-by, thou 'crystalline delight'?"
"Why, Mr. March," said Barbara, softly pulling at her hand. "I don't particularly like the implication that I'm per-fect-ly trans-par-ent."
"Now, Miss Barb! as if I—oh pshaw! Good-by." He lifted her hand. She made it very light. He held it well up, looking down on it fondly. "This," he said, "is the little friend that wanted to help me out of trouble. Good-by, little friend; I"—his lips approached it—"I love you."
It flashed from his hand like a bird from the nest. "No-o!" moaned its owner.
"Oh, Miss Gar—Miss Barb!" groaned John, "you've utterly misunderstood."