“But you waited for me to do it,” said the girl, looking up at him curiously. “Did I? I didn’t mean to. Yes, I did, too. But I beg your pardon. You see—say, look here; are you the ‘little girl’ who left word for me this morning?” “Yes. Why not?” “Well, you see,” smiling, but apologetic, “one of the boys said that Williston’s little girl had ridden over and said her father wanted to see me as soon as I could come. So, you see, I thought—” “Dad always calls me that, so most of the people around here do, too. It is very silly.” “I don’t think so at all. I only wonder why I have not known about you before,” with a frank smile. “It must be because I’ve been away so much of the time lately. Why didn’t you wait for me?” he asked suddenly. “Ten miles is a sort of a lonesome run—for a girl.” “I did wait a while,” said Mary, honestly, “but you didn’t seem in any hurry. I expect you didn’t care to be bored that long way with the silly chatter of a ‘little girl.’” “Well,” said Langford, ruefully, “I’m afraid I did feel a little relieved when I found you had not waited. I never will again. I do beg your pardon,” he called, laughingly, over his shoulder as he galloped away to the spring. When he returned there was no one to receive him but Williston. Together they entered the house. It was a small room into which Langford was ushered. It was also very plain. It was more than that, it was shabby. An easy-chair or two that had survived the wreckage of the house of Williston had been shipped to this “land of promise,” together with a few other articles such as were absolutely indispensable. The table was a big shipping box, though Langford did not notice that, for it was neatly covered with a moth-eaten, plum-colored felt cloth. A rug, crocheted out of particolored rags, a relic of Mary’s conservative and thrifty grandmother, served as a carpet for the living-room. A peep through the open door into the next and only other room disclosed glimpses of matting on the floor. There was a holy place even in this castaway house on the prairie. As the young man’s careless eyes took in this new significance, the door closed softly. The “little girl” had shut herself in. The two men sat down at the table. It was hot. They were perspiring freely. The flies, swarming through the screenless doorway, stung disagreeably. Laconically Williston told his story. He wasted no words in the telling. In the presence of the man whose big success made his own pitiful failures incongruous, his sensitive scholar’s nature had shut up like a clam.