“Isn’t it any use?” she queried.
He thought of Maurie and hated the handsome face which rose in his memory.
“You look sick,” said Jac. “What’s the matter? Is it all in my face? Let me take a slant at the landscape after the snow has fallen.”
She ran to the cracked glass. She was a tomboy when she whirled to a stop in front of it. He watched her eyes widen; saw her straighten slightly, wonderfully. She was inches taller when she turned; she was years older.
“Are you ready, Mr. Carrigan?”
She moved to him with a subtle rustling like the fall of a misting rain on orchard blossoms. He could not answer for a moment. He had seen a miracle.
“Yes, Miss During,” he said at last.
The light which came somewhere from the depths to shine in her eyes altered swiftly to a sparkle which he could understand.
She ran to him and caught both his hands.
“Carrigan,” said Jac, “you’re a trump!”