“From what Cathalina says, I judge that your family is never bored.”
“They do seem to stand it, but they are a long-suffering lot. And lately,” Philip’s face sobered, and he twirled the sweet fern that he held, “I’ve been planning for a musical wife, that is ... she’s pretty young now ... if I get home from war to ask her.”
Lilian’s heart tried to turn over, but did not succeed, and as he spoke of the war she looked at him quickly,—“O, Phil!”
“We are bound to get into it, Father thinks, and says that when we do get in I may go, not before. Campbell and I and most of our friends are making our plans accordingly.”
Silence for a few moments. Lilian played with a sprig of blueberries, which Philip had picked for her, and Philip still twirled the bit of sweet fern.
“Say Lilian, would you mind writing to me?”
“I’d love to, Philip.”
“Right along, I mean, not just once in a while. I’d like to tell you things, and know what you are doing all the time and where you are.”
Philip spoke so earnestly that Lilian almost gasped. Matters were moving rapidly in this new friendship.
“You see you’re,—well, you’re different. I never met a girl like you. You’re so sweet, you know!” and Philip put his long brown fingers for just a moment over the little tanned hand on the rock.