"I am in more danger from your bright eyes than from any Indian that walks."
"A truce to this trifling, sir!"
"Nay, 'tis no trifling. My heart's gone to you. You have known it long since. Is it not so?"
She stopped with downcast head before him.
"They—they did not teach us things—like that—in Philadelphia."
"Nay, 'twas Mother Eve taught you, I'm thinking; and, as I may be—" he hesitated, and then continued softly, "a long time in coming back, I thought I must tell you now or you might never hear it. I love you." He turned away. "That's all."
She sprang toward him and grasped him by the arm.
"Go not," she whispered, her eyes brimming. "Stay." Her head sank forward; she trembled as if she would fall. Unmindful of all others, he slipped his arm around her waist. "Stay," she continued so softly that he could scarce hear her words, though he bent his head eagerly to catch them. "Stay—for me."
"Then you love, too, thank God!" he cried. "Nay, I must go; but I go for you."
II.—THE MAN'S DARING