"Will you squeeze in between us—there's but one seat you see, and father's a big man, or shall I make a place for you in the bottom among the bags?"
"I'd rather sit with the bags," said Marjorie, her timidity coming back. She had always been afraid of Hollis' father; his eyes were the color of steel, and his voice was not encouraging. He thought he was born to command. People said old Captain Rheid acted as if he were always on shipboard. His wife said once in the bitterness of her spirit that he always marched the quarter-deck and kept his boys in the forecastle.
"You don't weigh more than that bag of flour yourself, not as much, and that weighs one hundred pounds."
"I weigh ninety pounds," said Marjorie.
"And how old are you?"
"Almost fourteen," she answered proudly.
"Four years younger than I am! Now, are you comfortable? Are you afraid of spoiling your dress? I didn't think of that?"
"Oh, no; I wish I was," laughed Marjorie, glancing shyly at him from under her broad brim.
It was her own bright face, yet, he decided, with an older look in it, her eyelashes were suspiciously moist and her cheeks were reddened with something more than being lifted into the wagon.
Marjorie settled herself among the bags, feeling somewhat strange and thinking she would much rather have walked; Hollis sprang in beside his father, not inclined to make conversation with him, and restrained, by his presence, from turning around to talk to Marjorie.