Mary put the stove-lid down, and went slowly, thoughtfully back to the dining-room bearing a pie. She studied the face of the young soldier intently as she passed him his pie, but he seemed so young and pleasant and happy she hadn’t the heart to say anything just yet. She would bide her time. Perhaps somehow it was all explainable. So she set to asking him questions.
“By the way, Dick, what ever became of Barker?” she requested, fixing her clear eyes on his face.
“Barker?” said Lyman Gage, puzzled and polite, then, remembering his rôle, “Oh, yes, Barker!” He laughed. “Great old Barker, wasn’t he?” He turned in troubled appeal to Miss Marilla.
“Barker certainly was the cutest little guinea-pig I ever saw,” beamed Miss Marilla, “although at the time I really wasn’t as fond of it as you were. You would have it around in the kitchen so much.”
There was covert apology in Miss Marilla’s voice for the youthful character of the young man he was supposed to be.
“I should judge I must have been a good deal of a nuisance in those days,” hazarded the soldier, feeling that he was treading on dangerous ground.
“Oh, no!” sighed Miss Marilla, trying to be truthful and at the same time polite. “Children will be children, you know.”
“All children are not alike.” It was as near to snapping as sweet Mary Amber ever came. She had memories which time had not dimmed.
“Was it as bad as that?” laughed the young man. “I’m sorry!”
Mary had to laugh. His frankness certainly was disarming. But there was that telegram! And Mary grew serious again. She did not intend to have her gentle old friend deceived.