"What happens? Well, I go to work and don't think of you for at least three hours. Then, when I am dead tired I stop for a minute to rest, and as soon as my eyes fall on a bit of green grass, or a flower growing by the road, or the blue sky, there you are again, popping in between them with your big eyes and your mouth that was made for kisses. I forget how heartless and light you are, and remember only the times you've crept up to me and put your hand on my arm and said, 'Abel, I'm sorry.' Most of all I remember the one time you kissed me, Molly."
"Don't, Abel," she said quickly, and her voice broke and died in her throat.
As he drew close to her, she walked faster until her steps changed into a run.
"If you only knew me as I am, you wouldn't care so, Abel," she threw back at him.
"I don't believe you know yourself as you are, Molly," he answered. "It's not you that leads men on to make love to you and then throws them over—as you have thrown me—as you will throw Mr. Mullen." His tone grew suddenly stern. "You don't love Mr. Mullen, and you know it," he added. "If you love any man on earth to-day, you love me."
At his first change from tenderness to accusation, her face hardened and her voice returned to her control.
"What right have you to judge me, Abel Revercomb?" she asked angrily. "I've had one sermon preached at me to-day, and I'll not listen to another."
"You know I'm not preaching at you, Molly, but I'm a man of flesh and blood, not of straw. How can I have patience?"
"I never asked you to have patience, did I?"
"No, and I don't believe you want it. If I'd catch hold of you and shake you, you'd probably like me better."