"Then you'd better shake Bud and give Slim a chance."
Polly was too disgusted to answer at once. "Slim Hoover, shucks! Slim doesn't care for girls—he's afraid of 'em," she said at length. "I like Bud, with all his orneriness," she declared.
"Why doesn't he come to see you more often?"
"I don't know, maybe it's because he's never forgiven you for marryin' Jack."
"Why should he mind that?" she asked, startled.
"Well, you know," she answered between stitches, drawing the needle through the cloth with angry little jerks, "Bud, he never quite believed Dick was dead."
Echo rose hastily. The vague, haunting half-thoughts of weeks were crystallized on the instant. She felt as if Dick was trying to speak to her from out of the great beyond. With a shudder she into a chair at the table opposite Polly.
"Don't," she said, her voice scarcely above a whisper, "I can't bear to hear him spoken of. I dreamed of him the other night—a dreadful dream."
Polly was delighted with this new mystery. It was all so romantic.
"Did you? let's hear it."