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Updated: May 15, 2025
Marcia laughed at a jest of Farris's, while Rogers sought to interest her in himself. The every-day, homelike atmosphere had its effect in allaying his picturesque fears. Hampton noted how her handful of days in the country had done Marcia a world of good, putting fresh, warm color in her rather pale cheeks, breeding a new sparkle in her eyes. She was good to look upon.
She turned to introduce Farris, the artist. But Farris broke into Marcia's words with a sudden exclamation. "Dave Lee!" he cried, as if he could not believe his eyes. "You! Here!" "Hello, Dick," Lee answered quietly. "Yes, I'm here. I didn't know that you were the artist fellow Hampton had brought up with him." Farris's hand went out swiftly to be gripped in Lee's.
When Dick Farris travels," and his grave smile came back to him, "let no mad letter think that it can track him down. Then I hit my stride in this sort of life; I grew away from the old news; the years passed as years do after a man is twenty-five; and I just didn't write. But I didn't forget, Dickie, old man," he said warmly, and his hand rested on Farris's shoulder.
Before she could decide she saw the gleam of a lantern, and heard the wheels of a carriage coming rapidly over the road, and without a moment's hesitation she called out: "Stop! Please stop!" and heard a familiar voice respond: "It's Ruth. It's Ruth." And the light of the lantern showed Gilbert and his mother in Ned Farris's pony-cart.
Fluff was no longer young, and he had never been required to go long distances; and now he could go no further. "I'll take off his harness," said Winifred quickly. "I hope he isn't going to have a fit. Ned Farris's pony has fits."
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