"Stop, stop, Ruth!" cried Phyllis, her hands over her ears, her face crimson.
"What is the use of stopping her at one letter? You have heard the whole story," said Bab.
Phyllis's face was full of a strange light; shame, regret, joy, shyness—all were there; but, above all, wonder. "You ought not to have told me; I ought not to have listened," she said. "But even if—if it were mine—"
"It was," interrupted Ruth, with decision.
"Well, if it was, what of it? Surely there is nothing strange in carrying a friend's hair, and especially when you thought she was dying," stammered Phyllis.
"You haven't been dying all this time, miss; and what about the Browning line?" suggested Ruth.
"Perhaps boys are like girls, after all, and like to play at being sentimental," said Phyllis. "It is mean of us to spy on Tom; I suppose boys like to dream. Do you remember, Bab, that funny little peanut Italian boy we used to watch for when we were about eleven, and how we used to wear a peanut for a badge to show how we all three admired him? Weren't we funny little monkeys?"
"I have some recollection of the peanut Italian," said Bab, "though I am not sure we could find that quarter of Italy on the map. It strikes me some of us are rather funny monkeys still."
"Trying to change the subject, Phyl?" teased Ruth. "Did you think sensible Tom would be your first—"