"Yes," she acknowledged truthfully, glancing up rather shyly into his handsome, ill-tempered face. She could not tell that he was feeling sympathetic towards her. "It was very silly of me," she added, "but I couldn't help it."
"The boys have been teasing you, I suppose? You shouldn't take any notice of them. Tom's never happy without he's humbugging some one, and I dare say your brother is as bad!"
"Oh no!" she exclaimed, realizing he meant his advice kindly. "I've been having a lovely time picking cowslips, and we've been playing 'Hunt the Hare.' I got left behind, and—"
"Is that why you've been crying?" he inquired in accents of contempt.
"Oh no, no! It was—I was thinking how happy I was, and wishing my mother knew, and then—she is dead, you know."
She paused, having become somewhat incoherent. Her companion made no response, though he thought he was beginning to comprehend the situation.
"I don't suppose you can understand," she proceeded, "because your mother is living—"
"Oh yes, I can," he interrupted. "I expect it makes you unhappy when you think of your mother, and that's why you cried?"
"No, not because I'm unhappy, but because I miss her so. Sometimes when I'm happiest I miss her most."
"Well, I wouldn't cry any more if I were you," he counselled, looking puzzled at her reply. A slightly sarcastic smile crept over his face as he continued, "Why should you cry if you are not unhappy? But, there, I suppose being a girl you can't help piping your eye. Girls are all the same."