A shrill whistle from the Mills echoed and reechoed through the valley.
Beryl turned her head suddenly and laid her cheek against the palm of
her mother's hand.
"Mother, I saw a lot of Tom Granger when I was in Paris."
Mother Moira started ever so slightly, with the barest twitching of the
hand Beryl's cheek touched.
"He was very nice to me. Mother, are he and--and Robin--awfully good
friends?"
"What's in your heart, my girl?"
"Mom, couldn't Robin marry almost _anybody_? She's such a dear and she's
so rich and she's travelled around so much."
"Why, bless the heart of her, she's nothing but a child!"
"Mother!" Beryl's voice rang impatiently. "We'll just _never_ grow up in
your eyes! Why, Robin's twenty. Well, I should think _anyone'd_ like Tom
Granger."
"Oh, my dear!" And Mother Moira, reading the girl's heart with her wise
mother-eyes, gave a tiny sigh. Must the shadow of a heartache touch the
splendid friendship between these two, Beryl and Robin?
The thought lingered with her while she watched the girls come hand in
hand out to the orchard from the drive where Robin had left her
roadster.
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