“Perhaps not, Holly. Perhaps she likes to do her own liking, solo. But if you ask me, I don’t think it matters to the value of one of those red hairs, what Miss Davenport doesn’t like, nor—which is far more important—what she does like,” Rodney said.
Cis raised her eyebrows; she had not missed symptoms, and she was accurate in their diagnosis.
“It’s a world of changes, Rory O’Moore,” she said. “A wise girl accepts them, and, if she’s still wiser, she looks for the next change.”
“You young sinner! Do you mean—”
“Sinners aren’t prophets, Rod; never mind what I mean,” Cis interrupted him.
Rodney pressed her hand in the crook of his elbow; they both laughed and went on their way rejoicing, Rodney exuberantly light-hearted, as if he had just fallen into a fortune, or had escaped a threatening danger.
Arrived at their ultimate destination, after a pleasant row up the river, Rodney inducted Cicely to the pretty glade of which he had told her, and placed her comfortably upon a low knoll. The blaze of autumn-tinted maples, oaks and sumacs was all around them, so beautiful that Cis caught her breath, then laughed to cover the emotion which dimmed her eyes.
“I wonder how it can be so much more beautiful than we can take in!” she said. “It gives me no chance at all, though; makes even my hair look drab!”
“Drab! I’d say so!” agreed Rodney derisively. “Cis-Holly, how about that code? I’ll help you with it, if you like; I’m a bird at things of that sort.”
“Can’t be done, Rod! I’m under the solemnest, swearingest vow to keep that to myself. I’ll master it by to-morrow; I’m sure it will jump into my brain suddenly when it gets ready,” Cis answered, thanking him with a smile.