There fell a little silence, during which they had glimpses of soft green woods, of distant harvest-fields and of the shimmer of sunlit waves. Vagrant odors of new-mown hay were wafted to them when the breeze stirred. An oriole's note rose out of the dim forest paths, poignantly sweet. Presently the lad spoke, not so much frightened at his own audacity as amazed at his lack of fear. "Since you are playing my sister, do you mind telling me your name? Did he say Buchanan?"
"No; Bruce-Hadden."
His face lighted as he exclaimed boyishly, "I knew I had known you! And I have—at least, I've seen your picture. You are Oswald Graham's cousin Jean."
"Of course; and you—you are his Yankee friend at Eton, the one who fought him because he said things about America!"
"And jolly well licked I was, too," said Willy gaily. "I didn't even know how to put up my hands; he made a gorgeous mess of me. And then he hunted me up and took it all back. Of course we were chums after that. I was going to visit him in the holidays, but—"
"But he was drowned, trying to save a child."
"He did save her. He always did what he set out to do. And if I had only been there—"
"I understand. He said you could swim like a duck."
"It's the only sport I'm not a muff at," said Willy dismally. "It's just my long arms. But he, he could do anything. I don't suppose I'll ever stop missing him. He was the only boy friend I ever had."
"But you have men friends now," she said gently.