"Why did they call you Horsehead?" she asked almost kindly.
"I never asked. It seemed to be a common understanding. Doubtless there was good reason for it, as good as there is for calling Budlow 'Fatty.'"
"What did you do?" she asked again.
"I went to the war with what I could take—nothing but a picture."
"And you lost that?"
" Yes—under peculiar circumstances. It seemed a kind thing to do at the time."
"And you came back with—
"With yours, Little Miss!"
Some excitement throbbed between us so that I had involuntarily emphasized my words. Briefly her eyes clung to mine, and very slowly we relaxed from that look.
"I only wanted to say," she began presently, "that I shall have to believe your absurd tale of my picture being with you before you saw me. Something makes me credit it—a strange little notion that I have carried that child's picture in my own mind."
"We are even, then," I answered, "only you are thinking more things than you say. That isn't fair."
But she only nodded her head inscrutably.
