“Do name the time; I suppose it will be the last day of the season.”
“No, George. I will become your wife on the first of May—in the month of roses and flowers.”
Kingman drew the trembling girl closer to him, and pressed a pure kiss on her burning cheek. They sat and conversed far into the night, their voices just loud enough to reach only the ears for which they were intended.
“Should we not return?” at length asked Irene.
“I see no need of hurrying. Why do you ask?”
“It is somewhat late; and, besides,” she added, in a lower tone, “I believe I have heard something wrong.”
“Not frightened, Irene, are you?”
“Yes: for I fear we are in danger.”
“In danger from whom, I should like to know.”
“From Indians and wild animals.”