“It’s a pretty name,” he said, looking at her.
“Is it?” she said, dreamily. “Yes, I think it is, now. Say it again.”
“Una, good-by. We shall meet again.”
“Do you think so? Then you will have to come to Warden again.”
“And I will. I will come soon. Oh, yes, we shall meet again. Good-by,” and, yielding to the temptation, he bent and touched her hand—Heaven knows, reverently enough—with his lips.
A warm flush spread over the girl’s face and neck, and she quivered from head to foot. It was the first kiss—except those of her father and mother—that she had ever received.
“Good-by,” he repeated, and was slowly relinquishing her hand, the hand that clung to his, when a hand of firmer texture was laid on his arm and swung him round.
It was Gideon Rolfe, his face white with passion, his eyes ablaze, and a heavy stick upraised.
The Savage had just time to step back to avoid the blow and plant his feet firmly to receive a renewed attack; but with an effort the old man restrained himself, and struggling for speech, motioned the girl away with one hand and pointed with the other to Jack.
“You scoundrel!” he gasped, hoarsely. “Go, Una, go. You scoundrel! I warmed you at my hearth, you viper! and you turn to sting me. Go, Una—go at once. Do you disobey me?”