ad observed that each
time Allan turned his head, ever so little, he had a way of turning his
shoulders with it: the perfect head and shoulders were swung with almost a
studied unison. And this little thing had pricked her admiration with a
certain needle-like suspicion--a suspicion that the young man might be not
wholly oblivious of his merits as a spectacle.

Yet this was no matter to permit in one's mind. For Nancy of the
lengthened skirts and the massed braids was now a person of reserves. Even
in that innocent insolence of first womanhood, with its tentatively
malicious, half-conscious flauntings, she was one of reticences toward the
world including herself, with petticoats of decorum draping the child's
anarchy of thought--her luxuriant young emotions "done up" sedately with
her hair. She was now one to be cautious indeed of imputations so blunt as
this concerning Allan. Besides, how nobly he had spoken of Bernal. Then
she wondered _why_ it should seem noble, for Nancy would be always a
creature to wonder where another would accept. She saw it had seemed noble
because Bernal must have been up to some deviltry.

This phrase would not be Nancy's--only she knew it to be the way her
uncle, for example, would translate Allan's praise of his brother. She
hoped Bernal had not been very bad--and wondered _how_ bad.

Then she went to him. Her first little knock brought no answer, nor could
she be sure that the second did. But she knew it was loud enough to be
heard if the room were occupied, so she gently opened the door a crack and
peeped in. He lay on the big couch across the room under the open window,
a scarlet wool dressing-gown on, and a steamer-rug thrown over the lower
part of his body. He seemed to be looking out and up to the tree that
appeared above the window. She thought he could not have heard her, but he
called:

"Clytie!"

She crossed the room and bent a little over to meet his eyes when he
weakly turned his head on the pillow.

"Nancy!"

He began to laugh, sliding a thin hand toward one of hers. The laugh did
not end until there were tears in his eyes. She laughed with him as a
strong-voiced singer would help a weaker, and he tried to put a friendly
force into his grip of the firm-fleshed little hand he had found.

"Don't be flattered, Nance--it's only typhoid emotion," he said at last,
in a voice that sounded strangely unused. "You don't really overcome me,
you know--the sight of you doesn't unma