"It's—it's all right, Viola," he stammered, awkwardly. "Don't think anything more about it. We will consider it unsaid."
"No, we'll not," she said, looking up. "We will just let it stand as another black mark against me. I am getting a lot of them lately. But I AM sorry, Kenneth. Will you try to forget it?"
He shook his head. "Never! Forgetting the bitter would mean that I would also have to give up the sweet," said he, gallantly. "And you have given me something very sweet to remember."
She received this with a wondering, hesitating little smile.
"I never dreamed that brothers could say such nice things to their sisters," she said, and he was aware of a deep, questioning look in her eyes. "They usually say them to other men's sisters."
"Ah, but no other fellow happens to have you as a sister," he returned, fatuously. She laughed aloud at this, perhaps a little uncertainly.
"Bless me!" he exclaimed. "It sounds good to hear you laugh like that,—such a jolly, friendly sort of laugh."
"I must be going now," she said, biting her lip. "Good-bye,—Kenny." A faint frown clouded her brow after she had uttered the name. "I must ask mother if she remembers hearing father speak of you as Kenny."
"Say, Viola," came an impatient shout from Barry Lapelle, "are you going to take all day?"
It was plain to be seen that the young man was out of temper. There was a sharp, domineering note of command in his voice. Viola straightened up in her saddle and sent a surprised, resentful look at the speaker. Kenneth could not repress a chuckle.