"I was silly and wicked," she whispered; "I am wiser now."
Her words lifted Tom into the seventh heaven. He cried out:
"Don't trifle with me, Elsie—not just now—I couldn't stand it!"
"I am not trifling with you, Tom."
"You don't mean that you care for me?"
His voice was broken and low. He waited for her to push him away, to break the spell rudely, but her hand never moved from his shoulder. It seemed to rest there with a caressing pressure, as a bird settles on a fondling hand, and still the fair curls swept his cheek.
"Elsie! Elsie!" he cried, half-wild with struggling emotions.
"Dear Tom," she murmured again.
"Oh, are you in earnest?" he almost sobbed. "Could you take me, Elsie? Let me be your slave—ready to tend you—to care for you—only living for your happiness!"
Elsie shook her head archly: