"Why didn't you go, child, if you wanted to so much?" She uncovered startled eyes. Her grandmother was standing there, looking strangely gentle. "Your father would have postponed the algebra for once."
"I haven't got a riding-habit."
"The cashmere skirt you wear when you ride out with Julia does quite well."
The girl shook her head. "Besides, I've only got the skirt."
"What's wrong with your nice velveteen jacket?"
"Hideous!"
They were silent for a space. Then Val:
"Oh, I don't care, I've got lots to do."
She slid off the window-seat and went down-stairs. Val had her full share of the young heart's passionate instinct to keep its aching to itself. She had no idea that her grandmother had seen her standing outside the parlor door when Ethan was there alone, hesitating, trying to go in, trying to go away, and in the end succeeding only under strong inward compulsion in compassing the latter. It was well she never dreamed how much the old eyes saw. She was sure that the world she was dwelling in was a place no mortal foot had ever trod before. The girl felt herself a solitary way-breaker through a virgin forest; if she should tell the thousandth part of the magic and the mystery of this new world of her discovery, no mortal would believe such travellers' tales.
She listened fascinated the night Ethan said, in answer to his uncle's platitude about "the common experience":