“That must have been a little bit tough on Garrison, eh?” laughed Garrison idly. “Now that you mention it, it seems as if I had heard it.”
“I've always wanted to apologize to Mr. Garrison, though I do not know him—he does not know me,” said the girl softly, pleating the gelding's mane at a great rate. “It was all a mistake, of course. I wonder—I wonder if—if he held it against me!”
“Oh, very likely he's forgotten all about it long ago,” said Garrison cheerfully.
She bit her lip and was silent. “I wonder,” she resumed, at length, “if he would like me to apologize and thank him—” She broke off, glancing at him shyly.
“Oh, well, you never met him again, did you?” asked Garrison. “So what does it matter? Merely an incident.”
They rode a furlong in absolute silence. Again the girl was the first to speak. “It is queer,” she moralized, “how fate weaves our lives. They run along in threads, are interwoven for a time with others, dropped, and then interwoven again. And what a pattern they make!”
“Meaning?” he asked absently.
She tapped her lips with the palm of her little gauntlet.
“That I think you are absurd.”
“I?” He started. “How? Why? I don't understand. What have I done now?”