The wallet was not, perhaps, stolen—that is, not in the ordinary sense of the word. Yet in another sense stolen it was, and the injured boy, in making her promise to keep it secret, was really making her aid him in keeping it from its rightful owner. The act was unfair. No promise could hold which was made under such circumstances. Of course, now that she knew that Brian really owned the wallet, she was free to return it to him.
Impulsively she sprang to her feet to follow him. One moment’s regret she had, as she thought of the appealing gaze of the fainting boy; but she dismissed it. One more thing she had learned: she must be careful where she trusted. Then she began to hunt for Brian.
He had not gone up-stairs, and a look out of the window showed her that he was not in the front garden. Probably he was in the big garden behind the house, and as the shortest way was through the kitchen, that way she took.
To her surprise, in the kitchen she found Brian standing alone. He was by the stove, with one hand in his pocket, and with the other gingerly endeavoring to manage the lid-lifter. Amused, Harriet thought of a line from an old saga, and she quoted it:
“‘What, lad, are you taking to cooking?’”
Brian started, dropped the lifter with a clatter, snatched his hand from his pocket, and turned from her. His face reddened deeply, and Harriet was surprised.
“I did n’t mean to startle you,” she said. She added mischievously: “The cookies are in the pantry.”
“Oh, come now, Harriet,” protested Brian. “You know I 'm too old to go hunting for cookies.”
It occurred to her to wonder what he was doing there, but she put the question aside. “Come into the garden,” she said, “before Bridget finds us and drives us out. She won’t allow any one here unless she ’s in a good temper.”
The flush slowly faded from Brian’s cheeks. “Come on, then,” he said. Into the garden the two went together, and there she thought to find a chance to give the wallet to him.
It was a large garden, with paths wandering here and there among shrubs and flower clumps. Harriet’s mother had taught her to love the work of gardening, and this place was to her a resort of peace and friendliness. It was very natural, therefore, to expect soon to be speaking confidentially with Brian.
But he talked so that she could find no chance. Though his blush was gone, his embarrassment seemed to remain. Harriet thought that he was talking to cover it. He rattled on about unimportant matters; and though Harriet waited for him to speak of the most natural subject of all, their adventures with the stranger, he did not mention it.
Harriet tried to bring him to it. “Was n’t it odd,” she asked, “that that boy should come out of the woods just where I was?”
“Perfectly natural,” answered Brian. He stooped to examine a flower. “What do you call this thing?”
“Why,” exclaimed Harriet, “I thought that even city boys knew roses!”
“Of course,” he answered with a little irritation. “I meant what kind.”
“A tea-rose,” she answered. “Those just beyond are the hybrid-perpetuals, and over that arch are the Dorothy Perkins.”
“Great garden this,” remarked Brian. “Do you know, the land you have in this garden, if placed on Fifth Avenue, would probably be worth a million?”
“If you 'd take it and put it there, I ’d let you have it for half a million.”
Brian looked at her, surprised. Younger girls did not usually poke fun at him. Then he laughed. “Good!” he exclaimed, but half-heartedly. “You country folk come back at a fellow sometimes.”
Harriet tried to break into his train of thought. “Brian.”
“H-m, great garden,” mused Brian, moving along as he spoke, so that she was forced to follow. “All kinds of things you 've got.”
“Everything we want,” she replied. Then she made her effort. “Brian, that wallet—"
He turned to her quickly, and his face was red again. “Now don’t you begin on that,” he said roughly. “Did n’t you hear me tell Pelham to let it alone?”
“Why, Brian!” she cried, surprised and hurt.
He turned. “Just cut that out entirely,” he said curtly, over his shoulder, as he walked away.
Now Harriet, being no saint, felt her cheeks grow hot. No one before had ever spoken to her like that. Harriet usually pleased people, for most of them recognized her good sense and her good intentions. In the town she was well liked; at home her brothers did nothing worse than tease her. Not even cousinship, she felt, entitled Brian to speak so to her. Quite indignant, she turned and hastened toward the house.
Then she began to reflect. Perhaps she had spoken unkindly. She could not see why he should be sensitive on the subject—yet boys were so queer! And if he were sensitive, then, perhaps, she had hurt his feelings. She slackened her pace. Ought she to apologize? Perhaps she
