“I wish I had some balm for it that would cure it in a second, and take away the memory of the way it was done,” said he, very softly.
“I’ll kill her,” flared Joan.
“I don’t like to hear you say that, Joan,” he chided, and reached and laid his hand consolingly upon the burning mark.
Joan caught her breath as if he had touched her skin with ice. He withdrew his hand quickly, blaming himself for the rudeness of his rough hand.
“You didn’t hurt me, John,” she said, her eyes downcast, the color of warm blood playing over her face.
“I might have,” he blamed himself, in such seriousness as if it were the gravest matter he had risked, and not the mere touching of a blood-red welt upon a simple maiden’s neck.
“I’ll be over early in the morning to see if you’re all right,” she told him as she turned again to her horse.
“If you can come, even to show yourself on the hill,” said he.
“Show myself? Why, a person would think you were worrying about me.”