'Good-morning, Sheilah,' said Cicely, and stopped in front of Sheilah, blocking the narrow snow-walled way. 'In a hurry?'
'No. Not a bit. Want me to do anything?'
'Oh, no. Off to school?'
Sheilah nodded. 'Yes.' And flushed. Cicely was looking at her so closely.
'Why, you've grown up, Sheilah!' she said finally, and then extending one of her hands, a small, delicate, perfectly gloved hand, and placing it lightly on Sheilah's arm, she added, in a sort of undertone as if it was a confidence, 'And you've grown up pretty!'
'Oh, no!'
'Oh, yes!' And then, tossing her lovely head—small and compact in a close turban, as perfect in outline as that of a small thoroughbred Arabian horse—'And I'm not the only one who thinks so either,' she added. A sudden irresistible desire to refer to Roger—simply to refer to him—possessed Cicely.
'Why, what do you mean?'
'Some one at church yesterday thought you were pretty, too.'
Sheilah flushed in earnest now.
'Why, who?'
'Oh, a friend of mine,' she laughed. (Was he a friend of hers? Still? 'Oh, come back, come back,
