“Oh, Joe, Joe,” she murmured in a snuggling, contented way.
Sweat sprang upon his forehead and his throbbing temples, so calm and cool but a moment before. He stood trembling, his damp elf-locks dangling over his brow. Through the half-open door a little breath of wind threaded in and made the lamp-blaze jump; it rustled outside through the lilac-bushes like the passing of a lady’s gown.
Joe’s voice was husky in his throat when he spoke.
“You’d better go to bed, Ollie,” said he. 110
He still clung foolishly to her willing hand as he led her to the door opening to the stairs.
“No, you go on up first, Joe,” she said. “I want to put the wood in the stove ready to light in the morning, and set a few little things out. It’ll give me a minute longer to sleep. You can trust me now, Joe,” she protested, looking earnestly into his eyes, “for I’m not going away with Morgan now.”
“I’m glad to hear you say that, Ollie,” he told her, unfeigned pleasure in his voice.
“I want you to promise me you’ll never tell Isom,” said she.
“I never intended to tell him,” he replied.
She withdrew her hand from his quickly, and quickly both of them fled to his shoulders.