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 "Shall we go on and leave him to follow with the luggage?" Margaret asked.

"Oh, no, no, I couldn't think of moving until it is found. So tiresome &hellip;"

"I am sure you are tired after your journey."

"I don't know what it is to be tired since I have taken up Christian Science. You know we are never tired unless we think we are," Anne said, when they were in the carriage, bowling along the good road toward the reddening glow of the sunset. Margaret and Gabriel, sitting opposite, but not facing each other—embarrassed, shy with the memory of their last parting,—were glad of this intervening person who chattered of her non-fatigue, the essential bag, and the number of things she had had to see to before she left home. All the way from Pineland station to the crunching gravel path at Carbies Anne talked and they made a feint of listening to her. The feeling between them was a great height. They were almost glad of her presence, of her fretting small talk. Margaret said afterwards she felt damp and deluged with it, properly subdued. "I felt as if I had come all out of curl," she told him. No wonder you speak so little, are reserved."

"I am not reserved with you," he answered.

"I think sometimes that you are."

"There is not a corner or cranny of my mind I should not wish you to explore if it interested you," he replied passionately.