"Run?" Head on the other side.

"If there's any one after me."

"Ride? Every one rides down this-away, you know."

A sudden vague passion mouthed at Garrison's heart. "Ride?" he echoed,
eyes far away. "I--I think so."

"Only think so! Humph!" She swung a restless foot. "Can't you do
anything?"

"Well," critically. "I think I can eat, and sleep----"

"And talk nonsense. Let me see your hand." She took it imperiously, palm
up, in her lap, and examined it critically, as if it were the paw of
some animal. "My! it's as small as a woman's!" she exclaimed, in dismay.
"Why, you could wear my glove, I believe." There was one part disdain to
three parts amusement, ridicule, in her throaty voice.

"It is small," admitted Garrison, eyeing it ruefully. "I wish I had
thought of asking mother to give me a bigger one. Is it a crime?"

"No; a calamity." Her foot was going restlessly. "I like your eyes," she
said calmly, at length.

Garrison bowed. He was feeling decidedly uncomfortable. He had never met
a girl like this. Nothing seemed sacred to her. She was as frank as the
wind, or sun.