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He sat in much the same attitude, and she stood just as she had stood when he told her she could not go to the Fadden Dance. Twice Spurlock went to Copeley's—twenty miles to the northwest—for ice and mail. Her two sticks were bare and brown, her snugged canvas drab, her brasses dull, her anchor mottled with rust. " "Why?" McClintock put a hand on the doctor's shoulder. She longed to allow him to kiss her again, to touch her again. Have I your final answer?" "You have, Sir Rowland," she answered, in a feeble tone, but firmly. After all, it came to him suddenly as a harsh discovery that she might be in a sense regarded as grownup.
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