"Not to-day, Tira," urged Nan. "You wouldn't get back till after dark."
"I shouldn't come back to-night," said Tira. "The Donnyhills were real good to me. They come to the grave. They'd admire to have me pass the night."
"Then," said Nan, "you wait till I go home and wash my hands, and I'll ask Mr. Raven for his car and you and I'll go over. Just we two."
"No," said Tira. "'Twouldn't do me no good to ride. When I've got anything on my mind I can't do better'n walk it off. You let me be!"
The last was a sharp, sudden cry, like the recoil from an unlooked-for hurt.
"I see," said Nan. "Yes, you must walk. I should want to, myself. But in the morning, Tira—mayn't I come over after you?"
Tira considered, her eyes on Nan's hand and her own clasped, lying on Nan's knee.
"Yes," she said, "you better. You come to the Donnyhills'. Yes, you come."
Then she considered again, and began one of her slow, difficult meanderings, where the quickness of her heart and brain ran ahead of her tongue's art to interpret them.
"Seems if you knew," she said, "'most everything that's gone on."