He stood a long, long time, uttering no exclamation, then hurried on, leaving a half-frightened and very thankful little girl trembling among the leaves of the blackberry vines.  But, would he keep looking back?  And how could she ever pass the next house?  Might he not stop there and be somewhere on the watch for her?  If some one would pass by, or some carriage would only drive along!  The houses were closer together a mile further on, but how dared she pass that mile?  He would not hurt her, he would only look at her out of his wild eyes and talk to her.  Answering Captain Rheid’s questions was better than this!  Staying at her grandfather’s and confessing about the pitcher was better than this!

Suddenly—­or had she heard it before, a whistle burst out upon the air, a sweet and clear succession of notes, the air of a familiar song:  “Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home.”

Some one was at hand, she sprang through the vines, the briers catching the old blue muslin, extricating herself in time to run almost against the navy-blue figure that she had not yet become familiar with.

The whistle stopped short—­“Well, Mousie!  Here you are!”

“O, Hollis,” with a sobbing breath, “I’m so glad!”

“So am I. I jumped off and ran after you.  Why, did I frighten you?  Your eyes are as big as moons.”

“No,” she laughed, “I wasn’t frightened.”

“You look terribly like it.”

“Perhaps some things are like—­” she began, almost dancing along by his side, so relieved that she could have poured out a song for joy.

“What do you do nowadays?” he asked presently.  “You are more of a live mouse than you used to be!  I can’t call you Mousie any more, only for the sake of old times.”

“I like it,” said Marjorie.

“But what do you do nowadays?”

“I read all the time—­when I can, and I work, different kinds of work.  Tell me about the little city girls.”

“I only know my cousins and one or two others, their friends.”

“What do they look like?”

“Like girls!  Don’t you know how girls look?”

“Not city girls.”

“They are pretty, most of them, and they dress older than you and have a manner; they always know how to reply and they are not awkward and too shy; they know how to address people, and introduce people, and sometimes to entertain them, they seem to know what to talk about, and they are bright and wide-awake.  They play and sing and study the languages and mathematics.  The girls I know are all little ladies.”

Marjorie was silent; her cheeks were burning and her eyes downcast.  She never could be like that; she never could be a “little lady,” if a little lady meant all those unattainable things.

“Do they talk differently from us—­from country girls?” she asked after a long pause.

“Yes, I think they do.  Mira Crane—­I’ll tell you how the country girls talk—­says ‘we am,’ and ‘fust rate,’ and she speaks rudely and abruptly and doesn’t look directly at a person when she speaks, she says ’good morning’ and ‘yes’ and ‘no’ without ‘sir’ or ‘ma’am’ or the person’s name, and answers ‘I’m very well’ without adding ‘thank you.’”