“Molly,” she burst out, after a long silence, “I have an idea who that girl is. Have you?”
“Yes, but I’d rather not mention her name. It’s too dreadful. And you know how I feel about circumstantial evidence.”
“All I say is,” announced Judy, “that it’s a certain person who makes the loudest noise about losing her own things.”
“Well, she’s repented,” said Molly, “so let’s try and forget it.”
There was another brief but eloquent silence. Judy pressed her face against the window pane.
“I did think,” she observed presently, “that those boys would come to take us out for a sleigh ride or a coast or something this afternoon. But we can’t wait around here all day for them. It would be paying them too much of an honor. Why not go coasting ourselves? I’ll get Edith’s sled and we’ll walk over to Round Head.”
“That would be fine,” said Molly, with all the enthusiasm she could muster. Reluctantly she laid aside her book and began to dress for the walk.
When two intimate associates are not mutually agreed, the more selfish one never dreams of the sacrifices of the other. Molly had no taste for battling with the snow, and when in half an hour they found themselves plunging through the drifts on their way to the steep coasting hill, she turned a wistful inward eye back toward the comforts of the yellow-walled sitting room. The Morris chair, the prized antique rug and the Japanese scroll with the snow-capped Fujiyama and the sky-blue waters called to her insistently.
“Isn’t this glorious, Molly?” ejaculated Judy, fired with the energy of her enthusiasms.
“Dee-lightful,” replied poor Molly, brushing the snow out of her eyes with admirable pretense at cheerfulness. However, the snowfall began to diminish and when they reached Round Head the storm had apparently spent itself. Molly felt the glow of exercise she really needed and she admired the splendid panorama of the snow-clad valley stretching before them.