not guess your purpose. What made it harder to understand," her voice hesitating slightly, "arose because there was something about you so oddly familiar; I—I felt that I ought to recognize your face; that somewhere we had met before—have we?"
"Yes, Miss Noreen; I am Tom Wyatt."
"Why! Why, of course!" the swift expression was one of intense relief. "How stupid of me! Oh, I am so glad that I know." To my surprise she held out both hands impulsively. "Your being a spy doesn't make any difference now that I know who you really are. It is no wonder I did not recognize you—why you were only a boy—"
"Not when you rode by my mother and me on the pike."
"A year ago? I remember; yet I hardly caught a glimpse of you through the dust. You were just a boy when you were here last. Why you had long curls."
"And thought Noreen Harwood the most beautiful little girl I had even seen."
"Oh, indeed; well, you were never nice enough to say so. All I distinctly recall is that you broke my doll, and I declared I would never speak to you again."
"I hope at this time to make amends," I hastened
