"
"Oh, does he?" exclaimed Marjorie. "I didn't know that."
"Girls are rattlebrains and chatterboxes; they can't be told everything,"
he replied shortly.
"I wonder what makes you tell me, then," said Marjorie, demurely, in the
fun of the repartee forgetting for the first time the bits of yellow ware
secreted among the hemlock boughs.
Throwing back his head Captain Rheid laughed heartily, he touched the
horses with the whip, laughing still.
"I wouldn't mind having a little girl like you," he said, reining in the
horses at the turn of the road; "come over and see marm some day."
"Thank you," Marjorie said, rising.
Giving the reins to Hollis, Captain Rheid climbed out of the wagon that
he might lift the child out himself.
"Jump," he commanded, placing her hands on his shoulders.
Marjorie jumped with another "thank you."
"I haven't kissed a little girl for twenty years--not since my little
girl died--but I guess I'll kiss you."
Marjorie would not withdraw her lips for the sake of the little girl that
died twenty years ago.
"Good-bye, Mousie, if I don't see you again," said Hollis.
"Good-bye," said Marjorie.
She stood still till the horses' heads were turned and the chains had
rattled off in the distance, then, very slowly, she walked on in the
dusty road, forgetting how soft and green the grass was at the wayside.
"She's a proper nice little thing," observed Hollis' father; "her father
wouldn't sell her for gold. I'll exchange my place for his if he'll throw
her in to boot.
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