THE RUNAWAY ROAD
what Love looks like! Maybe what I d collect would be—poison ivy." Her eyes narrowed a little. Her voice quivered the merest trifle. There's a Boy at Home—who talks—a little—about it. But how can I tell that it's Love?"
Her sudden vehemency startled him. "Where is Home?" he asked.
For immediate answer the Girl slipped down from the White Pony's back, and loosened the saddle creakingly before she helped herself to a long, dripping draught from the birch cup that hung just over the spring.
"You're nice to talk to," she acknowledged, "and almost no one is nice to talk to. It's a whole year since I've talked right out to any one! Where do I live? Well, my headquarters are in New York, but my heartquarters are over at Rosedale. There's quite a difference, you know!"
"Yes," said the Man, "I remember—there used to—be—quite a difference. But how did you ever happen to think of collecting adventures?"
The girl pulled at the White Pony's mane for a long, hesitating moment, then she turned and looked searchingly into the Man's face. She very evidently liked what she saw.
"I collect adventures because I am lonesome!" Her voice shook a little, but her eyes were frankly untroubled. "I collect adventures because the life
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