"I suspect it's been pretty hard for you not to. You know I appreciate it. If things work out as I hope, it will be you who have helped me most," and he shook hands with her very seriously. "There's one thing more I wish you'd do for me," he pleaded.
Ethel Blue nodded assent.
"If I can."
"I know you Club people will be hanging May baskets on May Day morning. Will you hang this one on Miss Gertrude's door—the door of her room, so that there won't be any mistake about her getting it?"
"Certainly I will."
"It's just a little note to say 'good-bye.' See, you can read it."
"I don't want to," responded Ethel Blue stoutly, though it was hard to let good manners prevail over a desire to see the inside of the very first letter she had ever seen the outside of to know as the writing of a lover to his lass.
"You'd better tell your Aunt Marian that I've told you all this," he went on. "I shouldn't want her to think that I was asking you to do something underhand."
"She wouldn't think it of you. She likes you."
"Tell her about it all, nevertheless. I insist."