"Oh, Frederic, I don't think I can."
"You can very well, if you will only jump."
"It is ever so many yards."
"It is three feet. I'll back Aunt Julia to do it for a promise of ten shillings to the infirmary."
"I'll give the ten shillings, if you'll only let me off."
"I won't let you off,—so you might as well come at once."
Then she stood and shuddered for a moment, looking with beseeching eyes up into his face. Of course she meant to jump. Of course she would have been disappointed had Aunt Julia come and interrupted her jumping. Yes,—she would jump into his arms. She knew that he would catch her. At that moment her memory of Daniel Thwaite had become faint as the last shaded glimmer of twilight. She shut her eyes for half a moment, then opened them, looked into his face, and made her spring. As she did so, she struck her foot against a rising ledge of the rock, and, though she covered more than the distance in her leap, she stumbled as she came to the ground, and fell into his arms. She had sprained her ankle, in her effort to recover herself.
"Are you hurt?" he asked, holding her close to his side.
"No;—I think not;—only a little, that is. I was so awkward."
"I shall never forgive myself if you are hurt."