Raymond
didn't once come to her side during all that endless three-mile
tramp back to Cherryvale; but she was conscious of his eye on her as
she trudged along beside Don Jones. She didn't feel like talking to
Don Jones. Nor was the rest of the crowd, now, a lively band; it was
harder to laugh than it had been in the morning; harder even to
talk. And when they did talk, little unsuspected irritabilities
began to gleam out. For now, when weary feet must somehow cover
those three miles, thoughts of the journey's end began to rise up in
the truants' minds. During the exalted moments of adventure they
hadn't thought of consequences. That's a characteristic of exalted
moments. But now, so to speak, the ball was over, the roses all
shattered and faded, and the weary dancers must face the aftermath
of to-morrow. . .
And Missy, trudging along the dusty road beside Don Jones who didn't
count, felt all kinds of shadows rising up to eclipse brightness in
her soul. What would Professor Sutton do?--he was fearfully strict.
And father and mother would never understand. . .
If only Don Jones would stop babbling to her! Why did he persist in
walking beside her, anyway? That lock of hair didn't mean anything!
She wished she hadn't given it to him; why had she, anyway? She
herself couldn't comprehend why, and Raymond would never, never
comprehend.
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