"Of course she will!" she flung back at him. "She doesn't mind our being friendly. Only,"—and she came back a few steps, "I am afraid she will never be friends with you, Kenny. I am sorry."
He was silent. She waited for a moment before turning away, shaking her head slightly as if attempting to dismiss something that perplexed her sorely. There was a yearning in his eyes as they followed her down to the gate; then he shot a quick, accusing glance at the house in which his enemy lived. He saw the white curtains in the north parlor window drop into place, flutter for a second or two, and then hang perfectly still. Rachel Gwyn had been watching them. He made no effort to hide the scowl that darkened his brow as he continued to stare resentfully at the window.
He met Viola at his own disabled gate, which cracked and shivered precariously on its rusty hinges as he jerked it open.
"I lived for nearly three years in this house, Kenny," she said as she picked her way through the weeds. "I slept on a very hard straw tick up in the attic. It was dreadfully cold in the winter time. I used to shiver all night long curled up with my knees up to my chin. And in the summer time it was so hot I slept with absolutely nothing,—" She broke off in sudden confusion. "Our new house is only about a year old," she went after a moment. Pointing, she added: "That is my bedroom window up there. You can get a glimpse of it through the trees but when the leaves are out you can't see it at all from here."
"I shall keep an eye on that window," said he, with mock severity, "and if ever I catch you climbing down on a ladder to run away with—well, I'll wake the dead for miles around with my yells. See to it, my dear sister, that you attempt nothing rash at the dead hour of night."
She laughed. "Have you seen our dog? I pity the valiant knight who tries to put a ladder up to my window."
They spent the better part of an hour going over the house. She was in an adorable mood. Once she paused in the middle of a sentence to ask why he was so solemn.
"Goodness me, Kenny, you look as if you had lost your very best friend. Aren't you interested? Shall we stop?"
A feeling of utter desolation had stricken him. He was sick at heart. Every drop of blood in his body was crying out for her. Small wonder that despair filled his soul and lurked in his gloomy, disconsolate eyes. She had removed her bonnet. If he had thought her beautiful on that memorable night at Striker's he now realized that his first impression was hopelessly inadequate. Her eyes, dancing with eagerness, no longer reflected the disdain and suspicion with which she had regarded him on that former occasion. Her smile was frank and warm and joyous. He saw her now as she really was, incomparably sweet and charming—and so his heart was sick.
"I wouldn't stop for the world," he exclaimed, making a determined effort to banish the tell-tale misery from his eyes.