The other reason for my leaving was Amy Willoughby. During my little
visit to her house my acquaintance with her had grown with great
rapidity. Now I seemed to know her very well, and the more I knew her
the better I liked her. It may be vanity, but I think she wanted me to
like her, and one reason for believing this was the fact that when she
was with me--and I saw a great deal of her during the afternoon and
evening I spent with the Larramies--she did not talk so much, and when
she did speak she invariably said something I wanted to hear.
Remembering the remarks which had been made about her by her friend
Edith, I could not but admit that she was a very fine girl, combining
a great many attractive qualities, but I rebelled against every
conviction I had in regard to her. I did not want to think about her
admirable qualities. I did not want to believe that in time they would
impress me more forcibly than they did now. I did not want people to
imagine that I would come to be so impressed. If I stayed there I
might almost look upon her in the light of a duty.
The family farewell the next morning was a tumultuous one. Invitations
to ride up again during my vacation, to come and spend Saturdays and
Sundays, were intermingled with earnest injunctions from Genevieve in
regard to a correspondence which she wished to open with me for the
benefit of her mind, and declarations from Percy that he would let me
know all about the bear as soon as it was decided what would be the
best thing to happen to him, and entreaties from little Clara that I
would not go away without kissing her good-bye.
But amid the confusion Miss Edith found a chance to say a final word
to me. "Don't you try," she said, as I was about to mount my bicycle,
"to keep those holly sprigs in your brain until Christmas. They are
awfully stickery, they will not last, and, besides, there will not be
any Christmas."
"And how about New-Year's Day?" I asked.
"That is the way to talk," skid she. "Keep your mind on that and you
will be all right."
As I rode along I could not forget that it would be necessary for me
to pass the inn. I had made inquiries, but there were no byways which
would serve my purpose. There was nothing for me to do but keep on,
and on I kept. I should pass so noiselessly and so swiftly that I did
not believe any one would notice me, unless, indeed, it should be the
boy. I earnestly hoped that I should not see the boy.