She clung to him as she said this, but her voice did not falter. "And you must not write to me any more. For, oh, Jerry, if I see you again I can never let you go, I know it. Will you do this for me?"
"You've been up all night, haven't you, dearest?"
"Yes,—I remembered, and then I couldn't sleep."
"What have you been doing all night? It is morning now."
"I walked up and down the floor, and pounded my hands together," she admitted, with a mournful smile.
"You are nervous and excited," he said tenderly. "Let's wait until after breakfast. Then we'll talk it all over with your father, and it shall be as he says. Won't that be better?"
"Oh, no. For father will say whatever he thinks will make me happy. He must not know a thing about it. Promise, Jerry, that you will never tell him one word."
"I promise, of course, Prudence. I will let you tell him."
But she shook her head. "He will never know. Oh, Jerry! I can't bear to think of never seeing you again, and never getting letters from you, and— It seems to kill me inside, just the thought of it."
"Sit down here in my lap. Put your head on my shoulder, like that. Let me rub your face a little. You're feverish. You are sick. Go to bed, won't you, sweetheart? We can settle this later on."