Pole sat down on a bag of coffee and his friend went to the girl.
“Good-morning, Miss Cynthia,” he said, his hat in his hand. “Peters seems busy. I don't know much about the stock, but if you'll tell me what you want I'll look for it.”
Turning, she stared at him, her big brown eyes under their long lashes wide open as if in surprise.
“Why—why—” She seemed to be making a valiant effort at self-control, and then he noticed that her voice was quivering and that she was quite pale.
“I really didn't want to buy anything,” she said. “Mother sent me to tell Mr. Peters that she couldn't possibly have the butter ready before to-morrow.”
“Oh, the butter,” Floyd said, studying her face and manner in perplexity.
“Yes,” the girl went on, “she promised to have ten pounds ready to send to Darley, but the calves got to the cows and spoiled everything; that threw her at least a day behind.”
“Oh, that don't make a bit o' difference to us, Miss Cynthia!” the clerk cried out from the scales, where he was weighing a parcel of sugar. “Our wagon ain't goin' over till Saturday, nohow.”
“Well, she will certainly be glad,” the girl returned in a tone of relief, and she moved towards the door. Floyd, still wondering, went with her to the sidewalk.
“You look pale,” he said, tentatively, “and—and, well, the truth is, I have never seen you just this way, Cynthia. Have you been having further trouble at home? Is your mother still determined that we sha'n't have any more of our buggy rides?”