"Do you feel buried?"
She nodded. "Oh, yes."
His face was grave. "And doesn't the school work—help?"
She caught her breath. "That's the best part of it. You see I love—the children."
He flashed a quick glance at her. "Then you're lonely sometimes?"
"Yes."
"I fancy these people aren't exactly—your kind. I wish you'd come and see my mother. She's awfully worth while, you know. And she'd be so glad to have you."
She found herself saying, "My grandmother was Cynthia Warfield. She knew your grandfather. I have some old letters. I think your mother might like to see them."
"No wonder I've been puzzling over you! Cynthia Warfield's portrait hangs in our library. And you're like your grandmother. Only you're young and—alive."
Again his ringing laugh and her own to meet it. She felt so young and happy. So very, very young, and so very, very happy!