He halted, looking gravely at her from the opposite side of the rock.
"You wantin' to get somethin' more for your story?" he asked.
She turned and looked over her shoulder at him, her eyes luminous with a tell-tale expression, her face crimson. "Why," she said smiling at him, "do you really think that I could be so mean?"
He was around the rock again in half a dozen steps and standing above her, his eyes alight, his lips parted slightly with surprise and eagerness.
"Do you mean that you wantin' to make sure that I loved you wasn't all for the sake of the story?" he demanded rapidly.
Her eyes drooped away from his. "Didn't you tell me that a writer should be in love in order to be able to write of it?" she asked, her face averted.
"Yes." He was trembling a little and leaning toward her. In this position he caught her low reply.
"I think my love story will be real," she returned. "I have learned——" But whatever she might have wanted to add was smothered when his arms closed tightly about her.
A little later she drew a deep breath and looked up at him with moist, eloquent eyes.
"Perhaps I shall have to change the story a little," she said.