Then to Betty, who was dramatically tearing her hair:
“Don’t look so peevish, Bet, dear, if you expect to make the big team you want to trot on and practice, not wander in the wood.”
“Do you know, Lo,” Betty answered with a wry smile, “you have the most discouraging habit of telling the truth just when I don’t want to hear it. I go. Farewell.”
She finished, disappearing through one of the French windows that led into the locker-room.
That long tramp in the woods, on that glorious day, with the fallen leaves almost knee-deep and the crisp wind in their faces, did more to establish the lasting friendship between the two girls than anything else could have done.
Polly, less reticent than Lois, told of her life in the New England town, of the quaint old house, and lingered over the description of her many beloved dogs.
Lois, in turn, described her jolly father, who was a well-known physician, her mother—no one was quite as adorably precious and young as Lois’ mother—and her big brother Bob, just seventeen, who was preparing for college.
“You see,” she finished, “Dad didn’t want me to grow up in a city, and as he has to live in Albany in the winter, he and mother decided I’d better come here.”
“I’m awfully glad they did,” Polly replied, giving Lois’ arm a tight squeeze.
Perhaps the quantity of greens was a little smaller than it might have been, but for these confidences. Still what do greens matter when compared to the forging of a splendid and lasting friendship?