"Do I look all right, Lou?" asked Hilda, much as Louise had put the same question to her at dawn.
Her sister told the plain truth in a syllable. Yes. She certainly did. Of course a jumper, even with so fine a new sash under its collar, wasn't quite as nice as low neck. But Hilda was undeniably charming. Louise felt a sudden elemental pang of jealousy.
Hilda's heart was in a great flutter. She liked Leslie ever so well. She didn't know any other boy she liked so well as Leslie. Have a care, little Hilda. Ah, have a care! Your age protects you. But later, when you have substituted loving for liking, things will be different. When Louise was your age she let Harold Gates kiss her a great many times. She let him put his arm around her, and when he had to leave her on account of the girl he had brought along with him to the picnic, she did not care—very much. Or at least she did not care very long. But now see, Hilda. Your sister has become a woman. She has learned to love, and play quite fearlessly with love. But love is a terrible thing, and your sister is not very wise.
Have a care, Hilda! As you value what is precious and fine in life—beware! Oh, Hilda, beware, when the heart has matured, that you do not reap a whirlwind of ghosts....
4
At dinner Miss Whitcom was treated to an entrancing account of the Assembly Roast, viewed as an institution.
"Of course," explained the Rev. Needham, "in the largest sense it's a religious function—a kind of general get-together, before the lecture season opens." It seemed a now more cautious way of reiterating that the church must advertise.
"But you see," contributed Mrs. Needham, "it was started by the Goodmans. He's a clergyman from Cleveland."
"It's their anniversary," added Hilda.