You know Norman is truth itself." "Is he?" asked Mae,
indifferently.
"I've seen for a long time," continued Eric, "that you two were not the
friends you once were, but I don't understand this open dislike. Doesn't
it spoil your pleasure? You don't seem to have the real old-fashioned
good times, my little girl," and Eric pulled his clumsy dear hand
through a twist of the brown hair caressingly.
"O, Eric," cried Mae, "that is like old times again," and a tear
splattered down into the big hand. "What, crying, Mae?" "No, dear--that
is, yes. I believe I am a little bit homesick. I wish I could go
back behind my teens again. Do you remember the summer that I was
twelve--that summer up by the lake? I wish you and I could paddle around
in one of the old flat-bottomed tubs once more, don't you, Eric? We'd go
for lilies and fish for minnows--that is, we'd fish for perch and catch
the minnows--and talk about when you should go to college and pull in
the race, and I should wear a long dress and learn all the college tunes
to sing with you and your Yale friends.
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