"Why don't you tell him so?"
Fannie leaned close and whispered, "I'm afraid."
"Why, he gave me wild flowers, once."
"When? Who?" The black eyes flashed. "When did he ever give you flowers?"
"When I was five years old." They turned down a short descent into the woods.
Fannie smiled pensively. "Barb, did you notice that John——"
"Has been trading again! His love's not very constant as to horses."
"But what a pretty mare he's got! Barb, 'pon my word, when John March is well mounted, I do think, physically, he's—" The speaker hearkened. From the low place where they stood her eyes were on a level with the road. "It's him again; let's hide."
March came loping down from the bridge, slackened pace, and swept with his frowning glance the meadows on the left. Then he moved along the edge of the wood searching its sunset lights and glooms, and presently turned down into them, bending under the low boughs. And then he halted, burning with sudden resentment before the smiling, black-eyed girl who leaned against the tree, which had all at once refused to conceal her.
Neither spoke. Fannie's eyes were mocking and yet kind, and the resentment in John's turned to a purer mortification. A footstep rustled behind him and Barbara said: