The Vagabond did not notice the young girl enter the room.

He had just finished reading the sentence at the bottom of page five of Meade's "Economic Analysis and Policy"--"If the producers of raw materials and machines expect to receive from the manufacturers of consumption goods as much next year as was received this year, no trouble need arise." No trouble need arise--a comforting thought, the Vagabond decided, and he was debating whether it was worthwhile wetting a finger to turn the page when he felt her warm hand on his brown. He looked; Meade evaporated.

She was smiling at him. Not seductively, but with a fresh, frank, open face. He could smell her soft fragrance--a new-old perfume, a spoor which had not tickled his nostrils for many long moons. Yet it was hauntingly familiar, a scent from the past, an aroma of other years. The Vagabond growled to cover his interest.

"Well, can't you see I'm busy?" he asked gruffly.

The girl sighed softly, a sound like zephyrs caressing rich green leave in a treetop.

"I'm sorry," she said. "You reminded me so much of a body named Vag, an old friend of mine. I've been looking forward to meeting him again His cronies down on the river bank haven't seen hum this year, but they though he might be up here. That's why I breezed in."

The Vagabond started. He knew he hadn't seen her come in the door. Breezed in? He glanced at the open window with suspicion. A faded drape undulated langurously. Could she--no, girls don't drift through windows, he reminded himself. Not at Harvard.

He unwound his large and straightened up in his chair. "Say, I have seen you before somewhere," he accused her. "And my name is Vag! Now when was it?" he demanded.

She swung onto the table beside Meade and dangled her bare legs to and fro.

"It was late year about this time, when the students sit on the steps in the twilight smoking, when their lady friends sit with them in open cars, when all music is a waltz, when the little girls tie blue ribbons in their pigtails, and older sisters walk together laughing in the darkness. It was when shouting ragamuffins go roller skating up the street, and older brothers hang up their trousers at night to keep the press in, when a roommate borrows the car to go to Wellesley, when the debutantes read poetry, when the moon is a soft, golden cartwheel.

"I was when every man is sick of four walls and a ceiling, when the notebook grows heavy and hateful in the hand, when Seniors try to get worried about Divisionals and can't, when Juniors first realize that they must have been studying far too hard before because they need a rest now, when Sophomores rent tandem bicycles, and when Freshmen buy their last new pair of white shoes.

"It was back when thousands shrieked for "Reinhart" and got him, when the Pops began, when the red oars flashed and a big voice in a little body called "Stroke," when you, Vag, decided to call up the girl you met at the Radcliffe tea one snowy January, and when she was out four successive nights you felt empty and dull and sodden---"

"I remember," the Vagabond broke in, "that was last Spring! Why--why, Spring is here now, isn't it?"

She nodded gaily and hopped from the table.

"I'm glad you remembered, Vag. Don't ever forget again. But I won't disturb you any longer. Except for this---" She picked up Meade and flung it across the room.

The Vagabond smiled his silent approval of her act, and Meade unmourned, he placed his hand in the young girl's.

They floated out of the window together.