CONRAD NORMAN
full of bake-shop cookies. The Furnesses had, that day, moved into their half of the house; it had been for some time vacant, and a missing board had not yet been replaced in the fence that made the rear wall of the woodshed. Con, straightening up from the kindling in order to cram a cooky into his mouth, saw her watching him through this hole in the fence with an expression of hungry envy. He grinned and held out a cooky to her. She studied him between shyness and temptation. ("They never had enough to eat in the house," he explained, "but they were so proud you'd never guess it."). He went over to the opening and said: "Go on. Take one. They're good. My father makes them. We own the bakery. Go on. I got lots."
She took it and said, "Thank you," polite, but embarrassed.
He introduced himself. "What's your name?"
Instead of replying she said, unexpectedly, "Mother 'll not let me play with you."
"Why won't she?"
"She doesn't let me play with any one."
"All right," he said. "Then I won't ask her to. Have another."
He gave her a handful. She was more at her ease, having confessed that she could not play with him. She nibbled the cakes greedily, looking at him over them. "My name's Flora," she confided.
That was their beginning. "She wasn't so
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