Christopher himself, away at the stile yonder, was not troubled at all except by a pleasant heartache. He had youth, and Joan Grant beside him, and a heart on fire for her.
"You are pleased to love me?" she was saying, facing him with maddening grace. "What is your title to love me, sir?"
"Any man has the right to love," Kit protested sturdily. "He cannot help it sometimes."
"Oh, granted; but not to tell it openly."
"What else should a man do? I was never one for secrets."
Joan laughed pleasantly, as if a thrush were singing. "You speak truth. I would not trust you with a secret as far as from here to Nappa. If a child met you on the road, she would read it in your face."
"I was bred that way, by your leave. We Metcalfs do not fear the light."
"But, sir, you have every right to—to think me better than I am, but none at all to speak of—of love. I had an old Scots nurse to teach me wisdom, and she taught me—what, think you?"
"To thieve and raid down Yoredale," said Kit unexpectedly. "The Scots had only that one trade, so my father tells me, till the Stuarts came to reign over both countries."
"To thieve and raid? And I—I, too, have come to raid, you say—to steal your heart?"