Fresh from the scene, softened by her ponderings, Lida felt the surge of an impulse to tell him that the same memory had come to her while she sat in the niche. She was the child who had made the daisy chain--who had been bolder than the other children in approaching the sleeping stranger. And she was not ready to agree with him that the memory was "queer." She wished she could confess her identity to him right then, because the confession would enable her to bring up a topic which had been interesting her very much--how personalities, meeting as strangers, often prompt each other through subtle psychic qualities of past association; there were instances in the books she had read where persons claimed to have recognized each other from past incarnations; but Lida did not believe that stuff, she had told herself. As to the mutual remembrance of the daisy chain--that was different--it seemed quite natural. She could remember just how comically that boy's nose twitched when she was waking him up with a buttercup blossom. Latisan was conscious of a queer unwillingness to have her leave him. He wondered what excuse he could offer to prolong the companionship of the evening. He wanted to link up her affairs with his in some way, if he could--that there might be something in common between them. To solicit her aid--her counsel; it is the first hankering of a man in his striving toward a woman's favor. In this case, the drive master, desperately casting about for an excuse, was guilty of something like an enormity in venturesomeness. His own business was calling him to the big house on the ledges; in his new state of softened spirit he was dreading any run-in with Echford Flagg. Perhaps gossip had already carried to Flagg the reason why the drive master had not hastened to report about the dynamite victory. To exhibit the actual reason for the delay, in her own winning person, seemed a very proper thing to do according to Latisan's clouded judgment of the moment. "Let me tell you!" he urged. "I've got to run up to Flagg's on business. You'll have something to talk to him about--those friends----" "No, no!" She hurried on toward the tavern. He ventured to clasp her arm, detaining her. "He's a poor, sick old man. A little talk with you will do him good." Her memory was vivid. "But you told me in New York that he won't have a woman near his house." "He's different nowadays," persisted Latisan. "He's sick and it will be a treat for him to have a girl say some kind words. I want him to meet you----" But she shook off his hand and resolutely kept on her way. "I must go in. I'm tired after my long journey--and my work." There were loafers in front of the tavern. "I'm very much obliged to you, Mr. Latisan," she called so that all could hear, "for your kindness in showing me the way to the falls. Good night!" She disappeared.