He sprang up, more to get away from his thoughts than to be able to see better. He had searched about the Banks and had made sure, and had watched the open country—there was no one about. And she was well away from the woods now, following the creek; its undergrowth would hide her from any one who might turn in from the Post-Road.
She did not leave the shelter of the creek until where it curved away from the Mine Banks. She was just below him now. Then she crossed the open space quickly and was lost in the trees that edged the Westmore Road. Garvin knew that she would come up behind the Crest.
They were safe from observation now, and he circled the Crest and started down the path which was more an animal trail leading through the bushes, than a path. He heard Ann's approach before he saw her, the rustle of sear leaves, and he stopped on one of the bare red patches that the noise of his approach might not startle her. The bushes parted presently, and Ann looked out. Then she looked up and saw him, and smiled. She was lovely as she stood there, half screened, flushed and doubtful and faintly smiling.
Garvin hurried down to her. "It's all right," he said. "I've been watching.... My, but the bushes have pulled you to pieces!"
They had; her cape was off, her hair loose on her shoulders, her breath short. "It's—more grown up—than it used to be," she complained.
"And so are you.... Don't pin up your hair, Ann—it's beautiful that way: I love your hair."
She did not give him the merry glance that was her usual answer to such speeches. She gave him the cape to hold and resolutely gathered up her hair. "Now!" she said, when it was in place.
Garvin had watched her in silence. Her decision had checked him; it was unlike her usual manner. "We'll go up to the cave," he said. "You can rest there."
"I can take my cape now."
"No, I'll carry it.... You're tired, aren't you?"