“Young, innocent, gay,
With the wild-rose of childhood yet warm on her cheek,
And a spirit scarce calmed from its infantine play
Into woman’s deep feeling.”
In the three weeks since Thea had been home from school, time had passed very pleasantly. Parties and picnics had rapidly succeeded each other in this charming Virginia town, and not one had Thea missed. Withal, she had turned the heads of half the marriageable men in town—a fact which afforded the careless child nothing but amusement.
She knew nothing of love, save from poetry and novels, and she had a fearlessly open opinion that love was tiresome in real life. She did not scruple to tell Tom Hinton that he was not half so nice as he had been when she was only a little girl.
“And you brought me candy and nuts and raisins, and all the things that Aunt Hester said were not good for little girls. You bring them still, and I enjoy them, but not as much as if you didn’t talk nonsense to me,” she said, candidly.
Emmie Hinton had always been fond of the girl, but she was in danger of forgetting it now in her resentment over Tom’s rejection.
“As if it wasn’t really better than she had any right to expect, for who knows who she is, anyhow?” ran on the tenor of her angry thoughts. “She was found in a railway wreck, and she hasn’t even a name but the one she made up herself out of a silly pet name. She can not have any people that amount to much, or they would have answered some of the advertisements papa says Mr. de Vere put into the papers. I wish he would come and take her away. I—I—wish she had never come here!” finally boo-hooed Emmie, spitefully, for she was growing miserably uncertain over the tenure she had upon Charley McVey’s heart.
That night, when the girls were dressing to go to the dancing-party, Emmie’s wrath broke out.