"Shall we go on?" she asked timidly.
"The walk is spoiled. It doesn't matter now;" moodily.
"Oh, Ned, let us be friends again. I cannot bear to have any one angry with me. No one ever is but grandad, when we talk about the country or the whiskey tax," and she laughed, but it was half-heartedly.
What a child she was, after all. For a moment or two he fancied he did not care so much, but her sweet face, her lovely eyes, the dainty hands hanging listlessly at her side, brought him back to his allegiance.
They walked on, but the glory had gone out of the day, the hope in his heart, the simple gladness of hers. Then the wind began to blow up chilly, and dark clouds were drifting about. She shivered.
"Are you cold? Perhaps we had better go back?"
"Well"—in a sort of resigned tone. Then, after a pause—"Are you very angry with me?"
"Perhaps not angry—disappointed. I had meant to have such a nice time."
"I am sorry. If I could have guessed, I would not have agreed to come."
They paused at the gate. No, he would not come in. The fine face betrayed disappointment.