Sally looked up from her papers. Her hair was in a pretty disorder; in a disorder that was very attractive, indeed, being somewhat rumpled in the front and running over with little ringlets, formed by the heat and the dampness, at her forehead and by the sides of her ears and down at her neck. She was busy, but she was interested and she was happy, for which I, for one, am thankful. She brushed the ringlets out of her eyes, impatiently, and smiled.
"Go ahead, Ollie," she said. "What is it, Horry?"
"O—only a r—r—row of b—b—bar—r—rels," he replied. Ollie Pilcher was standing at his elbow now, looking over his shoulder. "D—d—do y—y—you rem—em—mmb—ber th—that r—r—row?" Horry asked. "M—m—might b—b—be the th—the v—v—very s—same b—b—b—barrels."
Ollie burst out laughing. He did remember. "How long ago was that, Horry?"
"S—s—sev—ven years," he answered. "Ab—b—bout th—this t—t—time o' y—year, w—w—wasn't it?"
Ollie nodded.
"Oh," Sally cried, "I remember that, too."
Horry turned. "Y—y—you d—do!" he spluttered in surprise. "Wh—wh—where w—w—were y—you?"
"Sitting at that very window," she returned. "Uncle John saw it, too,—some of it."
Horry chuckled again. "Y—y—your Un—n—cle"—here he winked and gave a peculiar twitch to his eyebrows, as though that last syllable hurt him—"J—J—John w—was a b—brick, S—S—Sally."