"I'm mighty glad to see you, Miss Wallace," he said, with boyish enthusiasm.
"Thank you," she replied. "And may I ask how you happen to be at home at this time in the year?"
The smile on his face disappeared.
"I'll walk with you a few minutes if you don't mind, and try to explain," he said. Will tried to tell the truth and spare himself at the same time, but did neither well.
"I'm sorry, and in your senior year, too," said Barbara, when he had finished.
"Yes, that's the worst part of the whole affair. I—I don't know why I told you, Miss Wallace, but you asked me, and—you see I don't have any one to tell such things to—never did. I don't mean to be disrespectful, but father has spent his life trying to save sinners by preaching—somehow it didn't work on me; and mother, she's good, of course, but—I can't say it just the way I want to—I guess it's sympathy I need."
Barbara knew that his earnestness was genuine, but the timidity and hesitancy of the big fellow amused her.
"One can do very little without it," she said, trying to refrain from laughter, and then quickly added: "I suppose that you have already planned for the future."
"No, I haven't decided what I shall do—hardly thought of it, in fact. I shall stay at home for awhile, and then—I don't know—there's nothing I'm fitted for. I suppose that I might saw wood, or work on the roads."
"That would never do for a clergyman's son," replied Barbara.