“Oh! so you thought you’d pay me back, did you?” cried Ellen angrily. “I never said I cared a rap for Jim Dodge; but you told me a whole lot about Wesley Elliot: don’t you remember that night we walked home from the fair, and you—” Fanny suddenly put her hand over her friend’s. “Please don’t talk so loud, Ellen; somebody will be sure to hear. I’d forgotten what you said—truly, I had. But Jim—” “Well?” interrogated Ellen impatiently, arching her slender black brows. “Let’s walk down in the orchard,” proposed Fanny. “Somebody else can work on these silly old hearts, if they want to. My needle sticks so I can’t sew, anyway.” “I’ve got to help mother cut the cake, in a minute,” objected Ellen. But she stepped down on the parched grass and the two friends were soon strolling among the fallen fruit of a big sweet apple tree behind the house, their arms twined about each other’s waists, their pretty heads bent close together. Chapter XVI. “The reason I spoke to you about Jim just now,” said Fanny, “was because he’s been acting awfully queer lately. I thought perhaps you knew—I know he likes you better than any of the other girls. He says you have some sense, and the others haven’t.” “I guess that must have been before Lydia Orr came to Brookville,” said Ellen, in a hard, sweet voice. “Yes; it was,” admitted Fanny reluctantly. “Everything seems to be different since then.” “What has Jim been doing that’s any queerer than usual?” inquired Ellen, with some asperity. Fanny hesitated. “You won’t tell?” “Of course not, if it’s a secret.” “Cross your heart an’ hope t’ die?” quoted Fanny from their childhood days. Ellen giggled. “Cross m’ heart an’ hope t’ die,” she repeated. “Well, Jim’s been off on some sort of a trip,” said Fanny. “I don’t see anything so very queer about that.” “Wait till I tell you— You must be sure and not breathe a word, even to your mother; you won’t, will you?” “Fan, you make me mad! Didn’t I just say I wouldn’t?” “Well, then; he went with _her_ in the auto; they started about five o’clock in the morning, and Jim didn’t get home till after twelve that night.” Ellen laughed, with studied indifference. “Pity they couldn’t have asked us to go along,” she said. “I’m sure the car’s plenty big enough.” “I don’t think it was just for fun,” said Fanny. “You don’t? What for, then?” “I asked Jim, and he wouldn’t tell me.” “When did you ask him?” “The morning they went. I came down about half past four: mother doesn’t get up as early as that, we haven’t much milk to look after now; but I wake up awfully early sometimes, and I’d rather be doing something than lying there wide awake.” Ellen squeezed Fanny’s arm sympathetically. She herself had lost no moments of healthy sleep over Jim Dodge’s fancied defection; but she enjoyed imagining herself to be involved in a passionate romance. “Isn’t it _awful_ to lie awake and think—_and think_, and not be able to do a single thing!” she said, with a tragic gesture.