For Nan's part, she would rather not have met the rich girl at all. She had no particular ill-feeling toward her now; although time was when Linda had done all in her power to hurt Nan's reputation—and that not so very long past. But having actually helped to save the girl's life, Nan Sherwood could not hold any grudge against Linda. Bess, on the other hand, bristled like an angry dog when she saw Linda approach.
Linda came skating along warily, and arrived at the chums' bench by a series of graceful curves. She was rather a good skater, but more showy than firm on her skates.
"Oh, girls! I'm awful glad to see you," Linda cried, boisterously—and that boisterousness doubtless was assumed to cover her natural embarrassment at meeting again the girl whom she had so injured. "I didn't have time," pursued Linda, hurriedly, "the other day, to thank you properly—or Walter—for helping me out of that sleigh. I was scared."
"I should think you would have been," Bess said, rather grimly. "I'm sure
I thought you would never get out of it alive."
"Well," repeated Linda, more doubtfully, for Nan had remained silent, "I wanted to thank you for what you did for me."
"You needn't thank me," said Bess, sharply. "For I didn't do a thing."
"Well, Nan Sherwood did, I s'pose," Linda observed, her color rising.
"You are heartily welcome if you think you need to thank me, Linda," Nan said, quietly. "But Walter really did it all."
"Of course!" said Linda, tossing her head, for Bess' manner had rasped the rich girl, "I know it took Walter to do it. But I presumed you girls expected to be thanked, too," and she turned sharply away.
"Oh, Bess! we ought not to have spoken as we did," murmured Nan, contritely.