But now that the time had come for bravery, she found herself sorely afraid. A chill swept through her,—a weakening chill that took away her strength and left her trembling from head to foot. The crisis was at hand,—the great, surpassing crisis. She found herself hazily, tremulously wondering what the next minute in her life would be like? What would be said in it, what would happen to her? Would she be in his arms, would his lips be upon hers,—all in the minute to come? Was the whole of her life to be altered in the brief space of a minute's time?
A warm glow suddenly drove off the chill. It came with the realization that he was building the fire for her,—that his thoughts were of her,—that he had stolen into the building to make it warm and comfortable long before she was due to arrive,—and that he would steal away again as soon as the “chores” were done.
He arose to his feet and stood over the fire for a moment or two, watching its lively progress. Apparently satisfied with his efforts, he turned and started toward the door. She was standing in his path, a shy, wavering smile on her lips.
He halted, and after an instant's hesitation, stammered:
“I—I never dreamed you'd be around so early. I thought I'd run in as I was passing and build a fire for—for the kiddies. Get the place warmed up a bit before—”
“Will you let me say something, Mr. Percival?” she broke in, hurrying the words.
He fumbled for his hat. “I am sorry if you are annoyed, Miss Clinton. Please believe me when I tell you I hoped to get out before you came. I came early so that you would not find me—”
“You are not letting me say what I want to say.”
She came toward him, her hand extended. “Oh, I don't want to thank you for lighting the fire and putting the room in order. I want to tell you that I surrender.”
“Surrender?” he exclaimed, staring.