When she passed into the black shadows of the overhanging willows, a man stepped from behind a tree-trunk.
“Aren’t you rather late this evening?” he asked.
Betty stood still, the light of the street lamp full on her face. The abruptness of the sound startled her.
“Oh, you needn’t be afraid; I’m not going to hurt you.”
The girl peered into the gloom. She thought the voice was familiar, though she was not sure. She could distinguish only a shadowy face.
“What makes you so skittish, anyhow?” the man asked again,—in a lower tone this time. “You didn’t use to be so. I thought maybe you might like to drive over to Medford and see the show to-night.”
Betty made no answer, but she took a step nearer to him, trying to identify him. She was not afraid; only curious. Then all at once it occurred to her that it could be for no good purpose he had stopped her. None of the men had spoken to her in the street, even in the daytime, since her return home.
“Please let me pass,” she said quietly and firmly.
“Oh, you needn’t be in a hurry. We’ve got all night. Come along, now, won’t you? You used to like me once, before you shook the old man.”
Betty knew him now!