He stood watching them when they turned up the driveway, the
horse Ragtime muzzling the woolly white sweater and following like a
dog. But he wasn't thinking of Miriam Burrell or of Garry Devereau,
while he waited for Caleb and Dexter Allison to come up with him. He
was wondering about Archie Wickersham--the Honorable Archie--thinking
about that funny brawl of years before, which had not been so funny
after all--wondering if----
It was past twelve that night when Miriam Burrell's door was pushed
softly open by a slim white figure which hesitated on the threshold;
but the night-light was still burning upon the table. Barbara stood
for a moment, staring at her friend, who was sitting bolt upright in
bed.
"Then you aren't asleep," she faltered. "Are you--reading?"
The older girl turned and gazed, half blankly, at the dark-eyed face in
that mist of loosened hair.
"Yes," she drawled, for all that her hands and hunched-up knees were
bookless. "Yes, I'm reading. I'm having a little squint at this
puzzle-scroll they call Life."
She made a peremptory gesture and Barbara crept in beside her.
"I--may I turn off the light?" she asked.
Miriam snapped the button.
"I couldn't sleep," Barbara began presently, in a quaintly small voice.
"And I--I wanted--Miriam, I've acted so like an unschooled, half-grown
girl to-day that it has perplexed and worried me! From the moment when
I first recognized him and became so--tangled up--I've just chattered
and chattered.
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