"I don't think it is wrong to say he's different; it's certainly true!" Gifford was silent.

"Do you ?" she demanded.
"Yes," Gifford answered quietly; "and somehow it doesn't seem fair, don't you know, to say anything about them, they are so happy; it seems as though we ought not even to speak of them." Lois was divided between indignation at being found fault with and admiration for the sentiment.

"Well," she said, rather meekly for her, "I won't say anything more; no doubt I'll like him when I know him better." "See if that fits your finger, Lois," her companion said, sitting up, and handing her the little grass ring.

She took it, smiling, and tried it on.
Gifford watched her with an intentness which made him frown; her bending head was like a shadowy silhouette against the pale sky, and the little curls caught the light in soft mist around her forehead.
"But I'm glad for my own part, then," she went on, "to think of you with Helen.

You must tell me everything about her and about her life, when you write; she won't do it herself." "I will," he answered, "if you let me write to you." Lois opened her eyes with surprise; here was this annoying formality again, which Gifford's fault-finding seemed to have banished.