"I am unhappy, Big Boy," sighed the girl. "We have never come back from
our rides like this."
"It has been a wicked day for both of us, child."
"And you cannot call me child after to-day--so my father says." Her
voice was still plaintive, but there was a hint of the old mischief
there. "I'll be sixteen to-morrow--and I didn't know until to-day that
I'd be so sorry that it is so. Ever since I was ten I've been wishing I
could be eighteen without waiting for the years. But I don't know, now,
Harlan. It seemed as though I'd be getting more out of living. I thought
so." Tears were in her voice now. "It seems as though I'd grown up all
of a sudden; and things aren't beautiful and happy and--and as they used
to be--not any more! I've lost something, Harlan. And if growing up is
losing so much, I don't want to grow up."
He listened indulgently and understood this protest of the child. Their
horses walked slowly side by side, and the tired hounds trailed after
them.
"The grown-ups do lose a lot of things out of life, little girl--things
that mean a great deal in childhood.
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