TOM DIXON

With whoops and a waving of caps boys burst out of one door, while girls came out of the opposite one more demurely, but with the piping of gay soprano voices.  For school was out, and young America free of restraint for eighteen hours at least.  Resilient youth, like a coiled spring that has been loosed, was off with a bound.  Horses were saddled or put to harness.  The teacher came to the door, hand in hand with six-year-olds, who clung to her with fond good-bys before they climbed into the waiting buggies.  The last straggler disappeared behind the dip in the road.

The girl teacher turned from waving her fare-wells—­to meet the eyes of a young man fastened upon her.  Light-blue eyes they were, set in a good-looking, boyish face, that had somehow an effect of petulancy.  It was not a strong face, yet it was no weaker than nine out of ten that one meets daily.

“Got rid of your kiddies, Phyl?” the young man asked, with an air of cheerful confidence that seemed to be assumed to cover a doubt.

Her eyes narrowed slightly.  “They have just gone—­all but little Jimmie Tryon.  He rides home with me.”

“Hang it!  We never seem to be alone any more since you came back,” complained the man.

“Why should we?” asked the young woman, her gaze apparently as frank and direct as that of a boy.

But he understood it for a challenge.  “You didn’t use to talk that way.  You used to be glad enough to see me alone,” he flung out.

“Did I?  One outgrows childish follies, I suppose,” she answered quietly.

“What’s the matter with you?” he cried angrily.  “It’s been this way ever since——­”

He broke off.

A faint, scornful smile touched her lips.  “Ever since when, Tom?”

“You know when well enough.  Ever since I shot Buck Weaver.”

“And left me to pay forfeit,” she suggested quickly, and as quickly broke off.  “Hadn’t we better talk of something else?  I’ve tried to avoid this.  Must we thrash it out?”

“You can’t throw me over like that, after what’s been between us.  I reckon you pretend to have forgotten that I used to keep company with you.”

A flush of annoyance glowed through the tan of her cheeks, but her eyes refused to yield to his.  “Nonsense!  Don’t talk foolishness, Tom.  We were just children.”

“Do you mean that everything’s all off between us?”

“We made a mistake.  Let us be good friends and forget it, Tom,” she pleaded.

“What’s the use of talking that way, Phyl?” He swung from the saddle, and came toward her eagerly.  “I love you—­always have since I was knee-high to a grasshopper.  We’re going to be married one of these days.”

She held up a hand to keep him back.  “No—­we’re not.  I know now that you’re not the right man for me, and I’m not the right girl for you.”

“I’m the best judge of that,” he retorted.