"Well, let's hear you, then."
He bent his head and held his breath, oblivious to everything save the ecstasy of that moment.
"Billy," she half-whispered, then hiding her flushed face in her hands she turned and ran from him.
Billy did not follow. Something, perhaps the primitive man in him, cautioned the unwisdom of so doing. From the dim, far-back ages woman has run and man has pursued. But a few wise men have waited.
So Billy watched her passing like a ray of soft light across the valley and around the golden curve of the road. Then with his arms on the bridge-rail, his eyes gazing deep into the amber depths of the water, he lived anew every moment of her nearness, until the hoarse, joyful cry of a crow broke in on his reverie. Croaker, having grown lonely, had come down to meet him.
So with the bird perched on his shoulders, muttering a strange jargon of endearments and throaty chuckles in his ear, Billy turned up the path, thinking still of a pair of blue eyes and a voice that had called him "Billy."
CHAPTER XIX
CROAKER BRINGS A GIFT
It was Sunday. Anson, with eyes close-shut and suds dripping from his freckled nose, was having his weekly ear and neck cleansing, his mother's strong hands applying the coarse wash-cloth. Billy stood by, anticipating his turn, his eyes straying occasionally to the long "muzzle-loader" hanging on the deer-prong rack. Tomorrow the duck-season opened and he was wondering how he was going to contrive to sneak the old gun down and give it a thorough cleaning. Suddenly he became aware that operations in the vicinity of the wash-basin had become suspended. He glanced across to find his mother's gaze fixed sternly upon him. Anson was looking mightily pleased.
"I want'a know how you got them ink blots on your good clothes. Have you been a'wearin' 'em to school?" asked Mrs. Wilson.