Joyce paused.
"Well, then," she said, diffidently, "I hope before long you'll be real good friends. I have often thought, Meg, that the folk here aren't bright enough for you. I believe if you weren't set down in a country village you'd be a real clever girl."
I laughed, not ill pleased.
"Oh no, Joyce," said I. "I expect what you and I think clever wouldn't really be so."
"I know more than you think," said Joyce, sagely, nodding her pretty head with an authoritative air. "I don't mean book-learning clever, I mean mother-wit. And do you know, Meg, I do so hope that Mr. Harrod being here may make a difference to you! But you don't seem to have seen much of him yet."
"Oh yes," said I, evasively. "He comes in to supper most nights; and of course one meets out-doors now and then in a country place."
"Well," concluded Joyce, with a sort of air of resignation, "of course it wasn't to be expected you'd be great friends just at once. It's a great deal to be thankful for you don't quarrel."
"Oh no," said I; "we don't quarrel."
And then we both said our prayers and got into bed.
But for a long while I lay awake thinking—wondering why I had pretended that I did not like the new bailiff, and whether I really was a clever girl; and—shall I confess it?—hoping a little that the pale blue dress would become me. And then, as I fell asleep and far into my dreams, the memory of my ride with Trayton Harrod shone through the mist, and I thought again of that bar of silver promise across the dawn beyond which I had not been able to see.