“But I’m scared all the time. If I did 263 what I wanted to, I’d be a perpetual fountain.”
“And you’re not.”
She stared at him. “Is being scared and trying to cover it up what you call grit?”
“The grittiest kind of grit.”
For a sophisticated girl she was singularly naïve, at times. He watched her digest the idea, sitting up on the hay, her chin cupped in her two hands, straws in her hair. Her eyes were swollen and her nose red, and his handkerchief was now almost as wet as her own. “I thought I was an awful coward,” she said.
A smile curved his firm lips, but the steady gray eyes were tender. “I shouldn’t call you a coward.”
She shook herself and stood up. “Bruce, you’re a darling. Now, will you please go and see if the coast is clear, so I can slide up-stairs without being seen? I must wash up before supper.”
“I’d get supper,” he said, “if I didn’t have to milk to-night. Promised Henry.”
She shook her head positively. “I’ll let you do lots of things, Bruce, but I won’t let you get supper for me—not with all the other things you have to do.”