The god of Love gave him wings. He was over the fence, she was in his arms, and he was straining the warm, pliant body close to his bursting breast. His lips were on hers. He felt her stiffen and then relax in swift surrender. Her heart, stilled at first, began to beat tumultuously against his breast; her free arm stole about his neck and tightened as the urge of a sweet, overwhelming passion swept over her.
At last she released herself from his embrace and stood with bowed head, her hands pressed to her eyes.
"I didn't mean to do it,—I didn't mean to do this," she was murmuring.
"You love me,—you love me," he whispered, his voice trembling with joy. He drew her hands down from her eyes and held them tight in his own. "Say you do, Viola,—speak the words."
"It must be love," she sighed. "What else could make me feel as I do now,—as I did when you were holding me,—and kissing me? Oh,—oh,—yes, I DO love you, Kenny. I know it now. I love you with all my soul." She was in his arms again. "But," she panted a little later, "I swear I didn't know it when I came out here, Kenny,—I swear I didn't."
"Oh, yes, you did," he cried triumphantly. "You've known it all the time, only you didn't understand."
"I wonder," she mused. Then quickly, shyly: "I had no idea it could come like this,—that it would BE like this. I feel so queer. My knees are all trembly,—it's the strangest feeling. Now you must let me go, Kenny. I must not stay out here with you. It is terribly late. I—"
"I can't let you go in yet, dearest. Come! We will sit for a little while on the steps. Don't leave me yet, Viola. It is all so wonderful, so unbelievable. And to think I was looking up at your window only a few minutes ago, wishing that you would fly down to me. Good heavens! It can't be a dream, can it? All this is real, isn't it?" She laughed softly. "It can't be a dream with me, because I haven't even been in bed. I've been sitting up there in my window for hours, looking over at your house. When your light went out, I was terribly lonely. Yes, and I was a little put out with you for going to bed. Then I saw you come and lean on the fence. I knew you were looking up at my window,—and I was sure that you could see me in spite of the darkness. You never moved,—just stood there with your elbows on the fence, staring up at me. It made me very uncomfortable, because I was in my nightgown. So I made up my mind to get into bed and pull the coverlet up over my head. But I didn't do it. I put on my dress,—everything,—shoes and stockings and all,—and then I went back to see if you were still there. There you were. You hadn't moved. So I sat down again and watched you. After awhile I—I—well, I just couldn't help creeping downstairs and coming out to—to say good-bye to you again, Kenny. You looked so lonesome."
"I was lonesome," he said,—"terribly lonesome."
She led him to a crudely constructed bench at the foot of a towering elm whose lower branches swept the fore-corner of the roof.