"I don't know," said Faith to the faces of the jonquils. "I don't know, whether they ever do. I am not sure my father ever cometh back, Ben. He is here and not here."
For that Ben found no answer, but a new wave of courage allowed him to recapture her hand. "I suppose, Faith, it sounds as if I were talking the stuff of dreams."
"Brave dreams, but—why to me?"
"I think you made them."
"Oh, Ben, you'll break my heart. I am not—I—never mind, I don't wish to speak of it. But you should not be telling these things to me. I should not allow it. When we first met I thought you were only a green boy. Now I see you're—not, quite, and I...."
His own courage amazing him, Ben said: "And thou, Faith? How old art thou?"
"I am seventeen. But women are much older."
"I have heard that, and don't believe it."
"Oh! Oh! Must I now be angered with you?"
"No," said Ben, still dizzily courageous—"no, you must not. But you must tell me why you should be suddenly distressed, and—and why I shouldn't tell you what's in my heart. What is it, Faith?" The courage, he supposed, could hardly last much longer, but he could take some pride in it, this courage faintly like cruelty, that seemed to have swept away her needless defenses.