Part 3 (2/2)

”Hates?”

”They irritate him somehow. He thinks all such positions should be filled by men or boys. He says the war is over, and he wants all the girls taken off those jobs.”

”How unjust and unreasonable.”

”Uncle Herbert has both of those admirable qualities. But he'd adore you,--unless he found out you disapprove of the Buns, and then he'd turn and rend you!”

”I don't disapprove of them,--except for you.”

”That's what I mean,--for me.”

”Then I guess I'd better not meet Friend Bunny.”

”Oh, Dorcas, I don't know what to do! There's no light from any direction. There's no hope from your mother, my aunt or Sir Herbert. If you won't cut and run with me,--and if you're in earnest about not meeting me secretly any more,--what _can_ we do?”

”Nothing, Rick,--nothing at all.”

Dorcas spoke very seriously,--even sadly, and Bates realized how much in earnest she was. They were in the Park now, and by tacit consent they sat down on a bench near the Mall.

Their eyes met dumbly. Though Bates was only twenty-five and Dorcas twenty-two, they were both older than their years, and were of fine temper and innate strength of character.

They had known one another as children in their little home town, and later, as the feud developed and gained strength, the young people had been sent away to schools. Later, the war took Richard from home, and only very recently had propinquity brought about the interest that soon ripened to love. And a deeper, more lasting love than is often found between two young hearts. Both took it very seriously, and each thoroughly realized the tragedy of the att.i.tude of their respective guardians.

”Good gracious, Richard, I shall go straight home and tell your aunt!”

This speech was from the stern-faced woman who paused in front of the pair on the bench.

”Good gracious, Eliza, go straight ahead and do so!”

Bates' eyes shot fire and his face flushed with anger.

Eliza Gurney was his aunt's companion, indeed, her tame cat, her chattel, and partly from charity, partly because of need of her services, Miss Prall kept Eliza with her constantly.

Of a fawning, parasitic nature, the companion made the best of her opportunities, and, without being an avowed spy, she kept watch on Richard's movements as far as she conveniently could. And in this instance, suspecting his intent, she had followed the young couple at a discreet distance, and now faced them with an accusing eye.

”No, don't,” pleaded Dorcas, as Miss Gurney turned to follow up Richard's suggestion. ”Oh, dear Miss Gurney, help us, won't you? We're in such a hopeless tangle. You were young once, and----”

Dorrie could scarcely have chosen a worse argument,--for that her youth had slipped away from her, was Miss Gurney's worst fear.

”I am forbidden to speak to this girl, Richard,” Miss Gurney said, with pursed lips and heightened color. She addressed herself carefully to Bates and ignored the presence of Dorcas. ”You are, too, as you well know, and though you have so far forgotten yourself as to disobey your aunt, I've no intention of committing a like sin.”

”Fudge, Eliza, don't go back on me like that. You used to be my friend,--have you forsaken me entirely?”

”If you've forsaken your aunt,--not unless. Leave this girl instantly and go home with me, and there'll be no question of 'forsaking.'”

”Forsake Miss Everett! Not while this machine is to me! Go home yourself, Eliza; be a tattletale, if you want to, but get out of here!”

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