"
"You will be a young lady in long skirts and your hair tucked up. It's
dreadful."
"Can't be helped, John. You will look after Lucy, and write to me."
"And you will write to me, Leila?"
"If I may. Aunt says they are very strict. But I shall write to Aunt Ann,
of course."
"That won't be the same."
"No."
They walked on in silence for a little while, the girl gazing idly at
the tall trees, the lad feeling strangely aware, freshly aware, as
they moved, of the great blue eyes and of the sun-shafts falling on
the abundant hair she swept back from time to time with a careless
hand. Presently she stood still, and sat down without a word on the
moss-cushioned trunk of a great spruce, fallen perhaps a century ago.
She was passing through momentary moods of depression or of pleasure as
she thought of change and travel, or nourishing little jealous desires
that her serious-minded cousin should miss her.
The cousin turned back. "You might have invited me to sit down, Miss
Grey." He laughed, and then as he fell on the brown pine-needles at her
feet and looked up, he saw that her usual quick response to his challenge
of mirth was wanting.
"What are you thinking about?" he asked.
"Oh, about Aunt Ann and Uncle Jim, and--and--Lucy, and who will ride
her--"
"You can trust Uncle Jim about Lucy.
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