Or mayhap those lads wear a "Fiji" pin on their waistcoats;
I seem to recall spring hay-rides as an expression of "Fiji" spirit in
my own days at Madison, when I myself was that particular blithe
Hellenist with the guitar, and scornful of all Barbarians!
Sylvia was a woman now. AEons stretched between to-night and that
afternoon when she had opened the door for Harwood in Buckeye Lane. His
chivalry had been deeply touched by Mrs. Owen's disclosure at the bank,
and subsequent reflection had not lightened the burden of her
confidence. Such obscurities as existed in the first paragraph of the
first page of Sylvia's life's record were dark enough in any
circumstances, but the darkness was intensified by her singular
isolation. The commission he had accepted in her behalf from Mrs. Owen
carried a serious responsibility. These things he pondered as they
walked together. He felt the pathos of her black gown; but she had
rallied from the first shock of her sorrow, and met him in his key of
badinage. She was tall--almost as tall as he; and in the combined
moon- and star-light of the open spaces their eyes met easily.
He was conscious to-night of the charm in Sylvia that he had felt first
on the train that day they had sped through the Berkshires together. No
other girl had ever appealed to him so strongly. It was not the charm of
cleverness, for she was not clever in the usual sense; she said few
bright, quotable things, though her humor was keen.
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