“I was always careful not to write anything unpleasant to you,” said Oliver October glibly.
“Umph! Well, here we are. Don’t be uneasy now. I know how to stop her.”
And stop “her” he did, a dozen feet or so beyond the front porch steps.
“Set still. I’ll back her up. Sort of slipped on the ice, I guess. We’ve had some mighty cold weather the last week or so.”
The “uncommonly pretty girl” opened the front door.
“Hello, Oliver!” she cried.
“Hello, Jane!” he shouted back, as he ran up the steps. “Gee! it’s great to see you. And, my goodness, what a big girl you are. You were just an overgrown kid when I went away. Funny how a fellow never thinks of a girl growing up just the same as he does.”
He was holding her warm, strong hands in his own; they were looking straight into each other’s eyes. In his there was wonder and incredulity; in hers the expression of one startled by a sudden indefinable sensation, something that came like a flash and left her strangely puzzled.
“You haven’t grown much,” she said slowly. “Except that you are a man and not a boy.”
“That’s it,” he cried. “The difference in you is that you’re a woman and not a girl. And I was counting on seeing you just as you were four years ago.”