Gordon did not hear what the hour was, for she turned away her face and
began to cry quietly. She tried to brush the tears away with her
fingers; but one or two slipped past and dropped on her dress. With face
still averted, she began to feel about her dress for her handkerchief;
but being unable to find it, she gave it up.

There was something about her crying so quietly that touched the young
man very curiously. She seemed suddenly much younger, quite like a
little girl, and he felt like kissing her to comfort her. He did the
next thing.

"Don't cry," he said gently. "Here, take mine." He pressed his
handkerchief on her. He blessed Heaven that it was uncrumpled.

Now there is something about one's lending another a handkerchief that
goes far toward breaking down the barriers of conventionality and
bridges years. Keith in a moment had come to feel a friendliness for the
girl that he might not have felt in years, and he began to soothe her.

"I don't know what is the matter--with me," she said, as she dried her
eyes. "I am not--usually so--weak and foolish. I was only afraid my
mother would think something had happened to me--and she has not been
very well." She made a brave effort to command herself, and sat up very
straight. "There. Thank you very much." She handed him his handkerchief
almost grimly. "Now I am all right. But I am afraid I cannot walk. I
tried, but--. You will have to go and get me a carriage, if you please."

Keith rose and began to gather up his books and stuff them in his
pockets.