haunt her. Vexed by this, she decided to put him resolutely out of her mind.
"I'm like a silly schoolgirl, seeking a hero to worship," she laughed, blushing at her folly. "I'm old enough to know better. Such heroes always have feet of clay. Still, I'd like to think of him as well as I can—as a pitcher; and, to do so, it is wise that I should view him from afar, that his flaws may not be too apparent. I'll take care about that."
Then her thoughts turned to Benton King, and a little frown gathered upon her face. To-day, as they were driving homeward, and especially as they were saying good night at the door, there had been something in his manner and his words that he had never before unveiled to her. Hitherto they had been just good friends—he deferential, in a way—yet free and easy, as such friends might be, with no self-consciousness or constraint; but now, after this, something warned her that it would be changed, even though, as she believed, he had been neither deep nor sincere in what he had felt or said.
"I'm sorry," she murmured, still frowning; "for I like Bent, and he's about the only young man in Kingsbridge I'd care to be really friendly with. I suppose it's been so long since he's had
