"Do you think I'd show them how I felt?" she demanded. "Do you think I'd tell anybody—except you."
Stuart Farquaharson had a sensation of hills and woods whirling in glorified riot through an infinity of moon mists and star dust. He felt suddenly mature and strong and catching her in his arms he pressed her close, kissing her hair and temples until she, fluttering with the wildness of her first embrace of love, turned her lips up to his kisses.
But soon Conscience drew away and at once her cheeks grew hot with blushes and maidenly remorse. She had been reared in an uncompromising school of puritanism. Her father would have regarded her behavior as profoundly shocking. She herself, now that it was over, regarded it so, though she wildly and rebelliously told herself that she would not undo it, if she could.
"Oh," she exclaimed in a low voice, "oh, Stuart, what were we thinking about!"
"We were thinking that we belong to each other," he fervently assured her. "As long as I live I belong to you—and to no one else, and you—"
"But we're only children," she demurred, with a sudden outcropping of the practical in the midst of romanticism. "How do we know we won't change our minds?"
"I won't change mine," he said staunchly. "And I won't let you change yours. You will write to me, won't you?" he eagerly demanded, but she shook her head.
"Father doesn't let me write to boys," she told him.
"At least you'll be back—next summer?"
"I'm afraid not. I don't know."