person by his side.

"Would you rather I didn't talk?" he inquired when a mile or two had
been covered in silence.

She lifted her eyes to his, and for the first time he got a good look
into them. They were very wonderful eyes, and none the less wonderful
because of the fever which made them almost uncannily brilliant between
their dark lashes.

"Oh, I wish you would talk, if you don't mind!" she answered--and he
noted as he had at first how warmly pleasant were the tones of her
voice, which was a bit deeper than one would have expected. "I've heard
nobody talk for days--except to say they didn't care to buy my book."

"Your book? Have you written a book?"

"I'm selling one." This astonished him, but he did not let it show. It
was certainly enough to make any girl ill to have to go about selling
books. He wondered how it happened. She opened her handbag and took out
the small book. "I don't want to sell you one," she said. "You wouldn't
have any use for it. It's a little set of stories for children."

"But I do want to buy one," he protested. "I've a lot of nieces and
nephews always coming at me for stories."

She shook her head. "You can't buy one. I'd like to give you one if you
would take it, to show you how I appreciate this beautiful drive."

"Of course I'll take it," he said quickly, "and delighted at the