Fanny suddenly put her hand over her friend’s.
“Please don’t talk so loud, Ellen; somebody will be sure to hear. I’d forgotten what you said—truly, I had. But Jim—”
“Well?” interrogated Ellen impatiently, arching her slender black brows.
“Let’s walk down in the orchard,” proposed Fanny. “Somebody else can work on these silly old hearts, if they want to. My needle sticks so I can’t sew, anyway.”
“I’ve got to help mother cut the cake, in a minute,” objected Ellen.
But she stepped down on the parched grass and the two friends were soon strolling among the fallen fruit of a big sweet apple tree behind the house, their arms twined about each other’s waists, their pretty heads bent close together.
Chapter XVI.
“The reason I spoke to you about Jim just now,” said Fanny, “was because he’s been acting awfully queer lately. I thought perhaps you knew—I know he likes you better than any of the other girls. He says you have some sense, and the others haven’t.”
“I guess that must have been before Lydia Orr came to Brookville,” said Ellen, in a hard, sweet voice.
“Yes; it was,” admitted Fanny reluctantly. “Everything seems to be different since then.”