who clung to her with fond good-bys before they climbed into the waiting
buggies. The last straggler disappeared behind the dip in the road.

The girl teacher turned from waving her fare-wells--to meet the eyes of
a young man fastened upon her. Light-blue eyes they were, set in a
good-looking, boyish face, that had somehow an effect of petulancy. It
was not a strong face, yet it was no weaker than nine out of ten that
one meets daily.

"Got rid of your kiddies, Phyl?" the young man asked, with an air of
cheerful confidence that seemed to be assumed to cover a doubt.

Her eyes narrowed slightly. "They have just gone--all but little Jimmie
Tryon. He rides home with me."

"Hang it! We never seem to be alone any more since you came back,"
complained the man.

"Why should we?" asked the young woman, her gaze apparently as frank and
direct as that of a boy.

But he understood it for a challenge. "You didn't use to talk that way.
You used to be glad enough to see me alone," he flung out.

"Did I? One outgrows childish follies, I suppose," she answered quietly.

"What's the matter with you?" he cried angrily. "It's been this way ever
since----"

He broke off.