Light of
footstep, he came upon the girl suddenly. They had always been friends
since the day when, at uncommon risk, he rescued her dog from a freshet
on the Wild Moose River. She was sitting utterly still, her hands folded
in her lap. He struck his foot smartly on the ground. She felt the
vibration, and looked up. He doffed his hat, and she held out her hand.
He smiled and took it, and, as it lay in his, looked at it for a moment
musingly. She drew it back slowly. He was then thinking that it was the
most intelligent hand he had ever seen. . . . He determined to play a
bold and surprising game. He had learned from her the alphabet of the
fingers--that is, how to spell words. He knew little gesture-language.
He, therefore, spelled slowly: "Hawley is angry, because you love
Hilton." The statement was so matter-of-fact, so sudden, that the girl
had no chance. She flushed and then paled. She shook her head firmly,
however, and her fingers slowly framed the reply: "You guess too much.
Foolish things come to the idle."
"I saw you this afternoon," he silently urged.
Her fingers trembled slightly. "There was nothing to see." She knew he
could not have read her gestures. "I was telling a story."
"You ran from him--why?" His questioning was cruel that he might in the
end be kind.
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