“You never once spoke to me when I sat down,” said Miss Euphemia, feebly endeavoring to withdraw from Rand's grasp.
“I really didn't! Oh, come now, look here! I didn't! Don't! There's a dear—THERE!”
This last conclusive exposition was a kiss. Miss Euphemia was not quick enough to release herself from his arms. He anticipated that act a full half-second, and had dropped his own, pale and breathless.
The girl recovered herself first. “There, I declare, I'm forgetting Mrs. Sol's coffee!” she exclaimed hastily, and, snatching up the coffee-pot, disappeared. When she returned, Rand was gone. Miss Euphemia busied herself demurely in clearing up the dishes, with the tail of her eye sweeping the horizon of the summit level around her. But no Rand appeared. Presently she began to laugh quietly to herself. This occurred several times during her occupation, which was somewhat prolonged. The result of this meditative hilarity was summed up in a somewhat grave and thoughtful deduction as she walked slowly back to the cabin: “I do believe I'm the first woman that that boy ever kissed.”
Miss Euphemia staid that day and the next, and Rand forgot his embarrassment. By what means I know not, Miss Euphemia managed to restore Rand's confidence in himself and in her, and in a little ramble on the mountain-side got him to relate, albeit somewhat reluctantly, the particulars of his rescue of Mornie from her dangerous position on the broken trail.
“And, if you hadn't got there as soon as you did, she'd have fallen?” asked the “Pet.”
“I reckon,” returned Rand gloomily: “she was sorter dazed and crazed like.”
“And you saved her life?”
“I suppose so, if you put it that way,” said Rand sulkily.
“But how did you get her up the mountain again?”