"Me div dis to oo, ittle boy," she cried. "It's off my own woes bus. Oo must teep it."
Hardly knowing what he did Dan took the little flower, and stood staring at Marion.
"Come, lassie," cried her father, catching her in his arms and giving her a loving hug and a kiss. "Take good care of mother. We must be off."
"Oo div me tiss, too," and she lifted up her lips to Dan's.
The latter's face flushed scarlet, and he trembled. Never in his life had he kissed a little girl like that. What should he do? He longed for the ground to open or something dreadful to happen. He would have welcomed anything just then.
"Tiss me, ittle boy," urged Marion. She had him by the coat now with both hands, drawing him down to her. There was nothing for him to do. He must go through the ordeal. Suddenly he bent his head and shut his eyes. His face came close to hers; he felt her lips touch his cheek, and heard her childish laugh of delight.
"Dood ittle boy!" she exclaimed. "Now dood-by. Don't lose my pitty fower."
Too much confused to say a word Dan scrambled into the waggon, and soon the horses were speeding off down the lane to the road. For some time he sat bolt upright on the seat, silent and thoughtful, clutching in his hand that tiny rose. The big man at his side asked no questions, but seemed intent solely upon managing his horses. But not a motion of the little lad at his side escaped his notice. He loved children, and had the rare gift of understanding them. A faint smile played about his mouth as from the corner of his eye he saw Dan take a piece of paper from his pocket, shyly place the rose between the folds and then return it to its former place. He could not hear the boy's heart thumping hard beneath his jacket, but he understood, and what more was needed?
All day long they jogged over the road, stopping only at noon to feed the horses and eat a lunch Marion's mother had tucked away in the corner of the waggon. Dan found it easy to talk to the big man sitting by his side. He told him about his father's death, Parson John, and the accident, to which his companion listened with much interest. But concerning the object of his visit to the lumber camp, Dan was silent. Several times he was at the point of explaining everything, but always he hesitated and determined to wait.
"I did not tell Nellie," he said to himself, "and why should I tell a stranger first?"