"Girls are rattlebrains and chatterboxes; they can't be told everything," he replied shortly.
"I wonder what makes you tell me, then," said Marjorie, demurely, in the fun of the repartee forgetting for the first time the bits of yellow ware secreted among the hemlock boughs.
Throwing back his head Captain Rheid laughed heartily, he touched the horses with the whip, laughing still.
"I wouldn't mind having a little girl like you," he said, reining in the horses at the turn of the road; "come over and see marm some day."
"Thank you," Marjorie said, rising.
Giving the reins to Hollis, Captain Rheid climbed out of the wagon that he might lift the child out himself.
"Jump," he commanded, placing her hands on his shoulders.
Marjorie jumped with another "thank you."
"I haven't kissed a little girl for twenty years—not since my little girl died—but I guess I'll kiss you."
Marjorie would not withdraw her lips for the sake of the little girl that died twenty years ago.