There were
hanging-lights on the walls and blazing sticks on the hearth. Lucy came
running in to meet them. It did not escape Bostil's keen eyes that she was
dressed in her best white dress. He had never seen her look so sweet and
pretty, and, for that matter, so strange. The flush, the darkness of her eyes,
the added something in her face, tender, thoughtful, strong--these were new.
Bostil pondered while she welcomed his guests. Slone, who had hung back, was
last in turn. Lucy greeted him as she had the others. Slone met her with
awkward constraint. The gray had not left his face. Lucy looked up at him
again, and differently.
"What--what has happened?" she asked.
It annoyed Bostil that Slone and all the men suddenly looked blank.
"Why, nothin'," replied Slone, slowly, "'cept I'm fagged out."
Lucy, or any other girl, could have seen that he, was evading the truth. She
flashed a look from Slone to her father.
"Until to-day we never had a big race that something dreadful didn't happen,"
said Lucy. "This was my day--my race.
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