You must sit
there and let me get you something to drink. Have you walked?"
Beatrice yielded this time to the kindly persuasion. She sank down in
the proffered chair, but she retained Lois' hand.
"No, I drove. But I am tired. It was not easy work getting through the
crowd. They did not seem to want to let me pass. Once or twice I
thought they were going to attack me."
Lois laughed.
"They are only pilgrims. They come every year, and are quite harmless.
Hark at them now! There must be a band of them going past. Would you
like to watch from the verandah? It is really amusing--"
"No, no; this is not the time for amusement. I have something else to
do. Mrs. Travers, you are very kind to me. You have the right to hate
me."
"I--hate you? Why should I, Beatrice?"
"You call me Beatrice. But we have never been friends."
"Not till now."
"Do you think we are going to be?"
Lois drew up a stool and seated herself at Beatrice's side. Something
in the other's firm, gentle hold and in the low voice made her heart
ache.
"I don't know. I feel as though we were already."
"Don't feel that, because it is not possible. Mrs. Travers, do you know
who it was who came between you and John Stafford?" Lois' head sank.
"I see that you do. Yes, I did my best. I wanted his position--and
money. Are you still my friend?"
Lois met the grave, questioning eyes with a sudden energy.
"Yes. That is all over and past.
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