It is not to be wondered at, however, that Johnson looked apprehensively about him with every fresh impulse of the gale. The Girl’s description of the storms on the mountain was fresh in his mind, and there was also good and sufficient reason why he should not be caught in a blizzard on the top of Cloudy Mountain! Nevertheless, as before, the calm look which he saw on the Girl’s face reassured him. Advancing once more towards her, he stretched out his arms as if to gather her in them.
“Look out, you’ll muss my roses!” she cried, waving him back and dodging Wowkle who, having cleared the table, was now making her last trip to the cupboard.
“Well, hadn’t you better take them off then?” suggested Johnson, still following her up.
“Give a man an inch an’ he’ll be at Sank Hosey before you know it!” she flung at him over her shoulder, and made straightway for the bureau.
But although Johnson desisted, he kept his eyes upon her as she took the roses from her hair, losing none of the picture that she made with the light beating and playing upon her glimmering eyes, her rosy cheeks and her parted lips.
“Is there—is there anyone else?” he inquired falteringly, half-fearful lest there was.
“A man always says, ‘who was the first one?’ but the girl says, ‘who’ll be the next one?’” she returned, as she carefully laid the roses in her bureau drawer.
“But the time comes when there never will be a next one.”
“No?”
“No.”