“Is that what you intend to do? Go and bury yourself at the end of the world?”
“I expect so—any time after the next six months. I shall have finished my course by that time, and be on the look-out for the first opening that comes!”
“What will Betty do without you?”
Betty’s brother shrugged his shoulders with the unconcern with which, it is to be feared, most lads regard their sisters’ feelings.
“Oh, she’ll get used to it! It’s no use sticking at home if one wants to get on in the world. I should never be content to jog along in a secondary position all my life, as some fellows do. I don’t care how hard I work, but I mean to get to the very top of the tree!”
“Wish I’d been born a boy! It must be delicious to rough it in the wilds,” sighed Cynthia, stepping daintily over a puddle, and looking down with concern to see if perchance there was a splash on her boots. “Boys have much the best of it; they have a chance of doing something great in the world, while girls have to stay at home and—darn their socks! All the great things are done by men—in war, in science, in discovery, even in art and literature, though a few women may equal them there. All the great things are made by men, too, the wonderful cathedrals and buildings, and the great bridges and battleships—all the big things. There’s so little left for us.”
Miles looked at her beneath drawn brows, his rugged face softening with the smile that Betty loved to see.
“And who makes the men?” he asked simply, and Cynthia peered at him in startled, eager fashion, and cried—
“You mean—we do? Women, mothers and sisters and wives? Is that what you mean? Oh, I do think you say nice things!” (Shy, silent old Miles being accused of saying “nice things” to a member of the opposite sex! Wonders will never cease!) “I shall remember that, next time I see a lucky boy pass by rattling the railings, and looking as if the world belonged to him, while I must stand behind the curtains, because it’s not ‘lady-like’ to stare out of the windows! I do ramp and rage sometimes!”
Miles’ laugh rang out so merrily that Betty turned to stare in amazement. The idea of Cynthia doing anything so violent as “ramp and rage” seemed impossible to realise, as one looked at her dainty figure and sweet pink-and-white face. All the same it was a pleasure to find that she did not belong to the wax-doll type of girl, but had a will and a temper of her own.