CHAPTER FOUR

Laura, at this writing, looked piquantly unfamiliar to her
brother: her eyes were moist and bright; her cheeks were flushed
and as she bent low, intently close to the book, a loosened wavy
strand of her dark hair almost touched the page. Hedrick had never
before seen her wearing an expression so "becoming" as the eager
and tremulous warmth of this; though sometimes, at the piano, she
would play in a reverie which wrought such glamour about her that
even a brother was obliged to consider her rather handsome. She
looked more than handsome now, so strangely lovely, in fact, that
his eyes watered painfully with the protracted struggle to read a
little of the writing in her book before she discovered him.

He gave it up at last, and lounged forward blinking, with the air
of finding it sweet to do nothing.

"Whatch' writin'?" he asked in simple carelessness.

At the first sound of his movement she closed the book in a flash;
then, with a startled, protective gesture, extended her arms over
it, covering it.

"What is it, Hedrick?" she asked, breathlessly.

"What's the padlock for?"