"Why—why, I heard Mamsey talk about your father."
Tom's face clouded. His father, like his rags, hampered his very thoughts.
"How did you know me?" Donelle was growing shy.
"I think maybe you won't like it if I tell you."
Tom felt very old compared to this girl in her short skirts and long, light braids. He had never felt young in his life, but he had inherited that ease and grace of manner which his father abused so.
"I should just love to hear," Donelle was fingering Nick's ears nervously.
"Well, then, I spied on you. All winter, I spied. I heard them talking about you, and I had to see for myself. I always have to know things for myself."
"So do I. But after you spied," Donelle laughed, her yellow eyes shining, "what did you think?"
"Oh! I don't know." Tom shifted his position. "I thought you were all right."
They both laughed again at that.