Their horses secured, they took seats in comfortable niches of the great stones and let their gaze sweep over the lake. A steady breeze fanned their faces and the water lapped musically about the base of the rock. It set Margaret musing.
"Do you hear it, Andy?" she cried. "I could stay here forever and dream of the sea. The sea is in my blood and—my heart,—always in my heart. I have but to shut my eyes and I am a wild, free Norse-girl tossing on the deep, or—a bold pirate."
"Pirate is better," said Andy with a grin. "You are always stealing something from me—secrets and other things. These dead Norse maidens appear to better advantage these days among the zoological collections of infamous old bones in famous old museums."
Margaret looked up severe and shocked.
"Thank you!" said she with dignity. "You have an affectionate regard for my ancient ancestors."
"None whatever!" retorted Andy. "Not a little bit. They are animals of another and stonier age. Give me a nice living girl with plenty of breath in her body and a soft heart,—one with a laugh in her eyes and her soul, who can loll comfortably on a rock and revel dreamily in sheer langour and laziness; a girl for instance like Margaret Grant."
"You don't like me when I'm poetic—rapt."
"Don't I? How like a woman! You want me to confess that I am mad about you. But I will not, for I am not—not the very slightest."
Margaret glanced up curiously, a smile playing about her lips.
"The fact is, Margaret," continued Andy, "I do like you—just you, in any mood, at any time and on any condition. It is not a foolish, mad regard; just a cool, composed, deliberate but fatal, tremendously fatal affection."