the postponement of the wedding. "The first thing you know you'll let Neale slip through your fingers," she had said, and Sally had flung back, "I wish he would slip. When I am in his big house, I feel as if it would crush me."
And Mrs. Hulburt afraid that she had gone too far, had said soothingly, "It's your nerves, Sally. The trip over will do you good."
Sally managed to get through luncheon without show ing what she felt. Then she had a horse saddled and galloped down to the Bay. Furiously. And as she rode, she faced the truth. She had wanted to go to France because Merry was going. And now she wanted to stay at home because he was staying. And she couldn't stay. All of her plans were made, . . . she had burned her bridges. . . . The only light in the darkness was the fact that she would not have to be married in June.
The clouds were low, and as she started home it began to rain—a chilling downpour. She turned her horse's nose towards the Inn. Christopher would give her a cup of chocolate.
Christopher was glad to give it. "I haven't anybody but Columbus for company."
Sally picked up the big cat. "Cats are sometimes better than people" she said, briefly.
The big man took a look at her white little face, and said, "You put your feet up here by the fire, and I'll get your chocolate."
So Sally sat hugging Columbus up to her breast as if, with his friendly song, he was a buckler and shield against the arrows of outrageous fortune.
