Kit didn't visit every day, which would have been excessive. But she made it over to City General every few days while Stirling slowly regained his strength. She carefully filed away the mental image of the way his face lit up when she handed him a newspaper with a sketchpad and a box of pencils folded inside. With a conspiratorial wink, Stirling hid the contraband items under his pillow and the next time she came, he showed her the sketches he had done. The doctors, the nurses, his mother, the view of the city buildings out of the tiny scrap of window.

He'd filled several pages with studies of Kit, but those he kept under the pillow.

Mrs. Howard made no secret of her disapproval, of course, and often refused even to vacate her seat, leaving Kit to stand - but she didn't mind. And to an uninterested observer, her visits were doing more harm than good. The nurses remarked on Stirling's improved color and the beautiful appetite he'd suddenly developed as if it were mere coincidence. Although he'd quite cheerfully deny otherwise to anyone who would listen, Stirling had been rather ill, and his stay lasted well into January. Of course Kit's absences did not escape the notice of the Kittredge household. One night, while the were doing the washing up after supper, Mrs. Kittredge finally spoke up.

"I couldn't help but notice, dear," she began gently, "that you've been spending a lot of time over at City General."

Kit blushed, tellingly. "Sorry," she said. "I'll try and help out more around here. I didn't mean to shirk."

"No, that's not it," Mother said. "I just don't know if it's right to be spending so much time in a young man's company."

"Mother!" Kit splashed angrily in the dishwater. "Stirling's an old friend - a very old friend. One who's practically flat on his back at the moment. I don't need you to look out for my virtue."

"It's not your virtue I'm concerned about," Mother explained. "I think you may be…inadvertently… sending the wrong message."

"I don't care what anyone thinks," Kit muttered.

"I'm not talking about people," Mother said, "I'm talking about Stirling. Presumably he has the same type of feelings as any young man."

"You don't mean…" Kit shook her head. "No. We've been over that already, and it's not going to happen again."

"Are you sure?" Mother pressed. One-sided as her observation had been, she wasn't oblivious to matters of the heart.

Kit was silent for a long time. "Do you think I should stop seeing him?" she said finally.

"I think," Mother said quite seriously, "that you ought to tread carefully."

A few weeks later, on the first day that really felt like spring, Kit came home to find a lanky young man folded in one of her mother's living room chairs, a plate of cake balanced on his knee. "Oh! Hi, Stirling."

"Hello, Kit," he said, rising with a smile.

"I've got chores to do," Mrs. Kittredge said, leaving with a conspiratorial look at Stirling that didn't escape Kit's notice. "Give my love to your mother."

"Your mother's trying to fatten me up," Stirling said, gesturing with embarrassment at the plate of cake.

"She's been on a baking spree ever since the war ended," Kit explained. "Don't take it personally. I think you're looking well."

"Thanks," Stirling replied, resuming his seat. "Haven't seen you for a while. Old Gibson keeping you busy?"

"This and that," Kit demurred. "But, you could hardly expect to be indulged like that once you were healthy again."

"That's fair," Stirling conceded. "Here, I brought you something." He handed her a portfolio wrapped with string. "They're a little rough, but…"

Kit opened the folder and fanned out several pages of sketches over her knees. "What's this…" Realization dawned on her face. "Ruthie's princess story!"

"I illustrated it," Stirling said, a little embarrassed at her delight. "I've wanted to do it for a long time, only I was always too busy."

"So there's that advantage," Kit said laughingly, "of being laid up for weeks and weeks."

Stirling grinned. Illness had left its traces on his face, but the smile helped a lot. "I'm so glad you like it, Kit," he said.

"Margaret."

"I wanted to do something for you, to show my appreciation. You've been so kind to me while I was ill - the newspapers and the pencils and everything."

Kit looked up, suddenly stricken. "Why does that sound like a farewell?"

Stirling shifted uncomfortably. "I'm thinking about going to Chicago," he said.

"And do what?" Kit demanded.

"Work for an ad agency," he replied calmly. "Drawing matchbook covers. There's a lot of money to be made. I've lived under the specter of poverty for so long, I have a hard time turning down the opportunity."

"I know what that's like," Kit agreed. "You've definitely decided to go?"

"Not quite. I feel a responsibility towards Mother - I can't say for sure until we've figured out what she is going to do. I'm all she has left, you know," he said quite matter-of-factly. The truth was that Stirling had often resented the burden that had been placed on his young shoulders but he was far too kind a son to say so.

"Ah." Kit looked down at the drawings in her hands, feeling unaccountably disappointed. Something was wrong, and she couldn't quite work out what it was. "Your mother."

"And, well…" Stirling was as bashful as a boy again. "It's hard to know what to say. To you. I always feel like I'm about to put my foot in my mouth."

"We'll still be friends, of course," Kit replied calmly. "I'll write you if you give me the address."

"I don't think I can do that."

"Would you rather I didn't write?"

"Of course not." Stirling rose, and began pacing the floor. "The past year - when I thought you hated me - I couldn't go through that again."

"Then what on earth are you getting at?"

"Not seeing you was torture. But the thing is, Kit - being your friend, that's a kind of torture too."

Kit sprang from her chair. "Stirling Howard, that's a horrible thing to say!"

"I know." Stirling laughed ruefully, and raked frantic hands through his hair. "See, I knew I'd say the wrong thing. I always do, with you, don't I?"

They were standing very close now, and Kit breathed in his scent - shaving soap and pencils. "And why do you think that is?" she inquired.

"I think it's fate," he said. "You and I - for better or for worse, our lives seem to be inextricably linked, don't they? I've thought that ever since we were kids."

"Then why on earth is it so hard for you to be friends with me?"

"Kit, will you forgive me?"

"Forgive you?" Kit was stricken. "For what?"

"For what I'm about to say."

"Well, have it out already," Kit said irritably. "Don't leave me in suspense."

"Haven't you guessed yet? Kit Kittredge," Stirling said tenderly, "I'm in love with you."

She could have fainted from relief. "Oh, is that all," Kit said with a shaky laugh, and allowed herself to be kissed.

"Before I answer your question, Stirling Howard, I have one of my own."

"What is it?"

"Stop kissing me and let me speak," Kit laughed. "When did you know?"

Stirling didn't even need to think about it. "That day I walked into the Register and saw you," he said. "You were wearing a yellow blouse; when you looked up at me and smiled, I was a goner."

"I'll accept that," Kit replied calmly.

"And your answer," Stirling pressed, "to my question?"

Kit replied without hesitation. "As if there was any question," she scoffed. "Of course I will."