He found himself, in turn, beginning to depend upon her, and in their planning her calm decision and quiet reasoning strengthened him with new confidence and made his heart sing with gladness.

With his eyes on the smooth and velvety coils of hair which she had twisted woman-like on her head, he said, "With your hair like that you are my Margaret of Anjou, and the other way--with it down you are my little Nada of Cragg's Ridge.

And I--I don't quite understand why God should be so good to me." And this day Peter was trying in his dumb way to analyze the change.

The touch of Nada's hand thrilled him, as it did a long time ago, and still he sensed the difference.

Her voice was even softer when she put her cheek down to his whiskered face and talked to him, but in it he missed that which he could not quite bring back clearly through the lapse of time--the childish comradeship of her.