She leaned forward, her eyes
shining, her brows knit with the effort of recollection.
"I used to tell Aunt," she said, "I had to drive in for the
mail. But that was only an excuse. Aunt had an old buggy, and an
old white horse called Roscoe Conkling. I called him Rocks. He
was blind in one eye, and he would walk on the wrong side of the
road; you had to drive him on one rein." The girl was speaking
rapidly, eagerly. She had lost all fear of her visitor. With
satisfaction Winthrop recognized this; and unconsciously he was
now frankly regarding the face of the girl with a smile of
pleasure and admiration.
"And I used to tie him to the fence just opposite first base,"
Vera went on excitedly, "and shout -- for you!"
"Don't tell me," interrupted Winthrop, in burlesque excitement,
"that you were that very pretty little girl, with short dresses
and long legs, who used to sit on the top rail and kick and
cheer."
Vera shook her head sternly.
"I was," she said, "but you never saw me."
"Oh, yes, we did," protested Winthrop. "We used to call you our
mascot."
"No, that was some other little girl," said Vera firmly. "You
never looked at me, and I" -- she laughed, and then frowned at
him reproachfully -- "I thought you were magnificent! I used to
have your pictures in baseball clothes pinned all around my
looking glass, and whenever you made a base hit, I'd shout and
shout -- and you'd never look at me! And one day -- " she
stopped, and as though appalled by the memory, clasped her
hands.
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