and when they reached the stile across the campus and Chad saw a crowd of
Margaret's friends coming down the street, he halted as if to turn back, but
the little girl told him imperiously to come on. It was a strange escort for
haughty Margaret--the country-looking boy, in coarse homespun--but Margaret
spoke cheerily to her friends and went on, looking up at Chad and talking to
him as though he were the dearest friend she had on earth.

At the edge of town she suggested that they walk across a pasture and go back
by another street, and not until they were passing through the woodland did
Chad come to himself.

"You know I didn't rickollect when you called me 'little boy.'"

"Indeed!"

"Not at fust, I mean," stammered Chad.

Margaret grew mock-haughty and Chad grew grave. He spoke very slowly and
steadily. "I reckon I rickollect ever'thing that happened out thar a sight
better'n you. I ain't forgot nothin'--anything."

The boy's sober and half-sullen tone made Margaret catch her breath with a
sudden vague alarm.

Unconsciously she quickened her pace, but, already, she was mistress of an
art to which she was born and she said, lightly:

"Now, that's MUCH better." A piece of pasteboard dropped from Chad's jacket
just then, and, taking the little girl's cue to swerve from the point at
issue, he picked it up and held it out for Margaret to read. It was the first