Hollis laughed; he thought he was already grown up, and he did admire
"city girls" with their pretty finished manners and little ready
speeches.
Marjorie wished Hollis would begin to talk about something pleasant;
there were two miles further to ride, and would Captain Rheid talk all
the way?
If she could only have an errand somewhere and make an excuse to get out!
But the Captain's next words relieved her perplexity; "I can't take you
all the way, Sis, I have to branch off another road to see a man about
helping me with the hay. I would have let Hollis go to mill, but I
couldn't trust him with these horses."
Hollis fidgeted on his seat; he had asked his father when they set out to
let him take the lines, but he had replied ungraciously that as long as
he had hands he preferred to hold the reins.
Hollis had laughed and retorted: "I believe that, father."
"Shall I get out now?" asked Marjorie, eagerly. "I like to walk. I
expected to walk home."
"No; wait till we come to the turn."
The horses were walking slowly up the hill; Marjorie made dents in the
bag of flour, in the bag of indian meal, and in the bag of wheat bran,
and studied Hollis' back. The new navy-blue suit was handsome and
stylish, and the back of his brown head with its thick waves of brownish
hair was handsome also--handsome and familiar; but the navy-blue suit was
not familiar, and the eyes that just then turned and looked at her were
not familiar either. Marjorie could get on delightfully with _souls_, but
bodies were something that came between her soul and their soul; the
flesh, like a veil, hid herself and hid the other soul that she wanted to
be at home with.
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