tirely boyish. Her very unconsciousness
of self intensified and emphasized it for the man whose steady gaze
rarely left her warm face. And more than once she caught herself
watching for his slow smile to spread and crinkle the corners of his
eyelids; once or twice, in a little lull, she found time to wonder at
that new and quite frivolous mood of hers. But when Steve finally
asked for Devereau--Garry Devereau, who had followed him to the
hedge-gap that day and laid one hand upon his bowed, shamed
shoulder--the light went from Barbara's eyes. And Stephen O'Mara, who
did not understand at first the quick hurt which entered them, stopped
smiling, too.

"I liked him," Steve said simply. "I've always remembered and liked
him. Thinking of him and--and--has often kept me from being too lonely
nights when I was lonely enough."

That statement concerning his friend contained the first personal note
which had come from his lips. Barbara did not answer immediately, and
Steve thought that she was phrasing her own reply. He could not know
that she wanted a moment in which to contemplate the little hint of
diffidence in his voice and to wonder at herself for not having
wondered before if he had not, many, many times, been very lonely
indeed.

"Do you remember a little girl who was at our place the summer you were
here?" she asked finally. "A pale, red-lipped, very shy little thing
named Mary Graves?"

Stephen nodded.

"And do you remember how, even then, Garry seemed to care for her? He
was always supercilious with the rest of us; he tormented us or ignored
us entirely, but never her."

Again the inclination of the head.

"Well, he grew up just that way," Barbara went on, thoughtfully. "One
never could tell what was behind his indifference or--or flippancies.
He mocked at things . . . customs and courses of action, which we have
come to accept and . . . and recognize. But he was always gentle with
her, and kind, and--oh, I think reverend is the right word! Now,
knowing Garry as I do--as you will, when you see him again--the phrase
may seem a strange one to apply to him. And yet it describes best his
bearing toward Mary Graves, two years ago."

She was walking more slowly now, without knowing it.

"I doubt if Garry ever revered anything on earth, or above it, except
just little, white, shy Mary Graves, who never grew much bigger than
she was when you knew her. I don't know whether you know it--of course
you