“Miles Bissant,” he said indifferently. In a long stillness sounded the dry, faint click of grasshoppers, snapping upward in short arcs roundabout.
“Mine’s Anna Hilliard,” she volunteered; and after another silence, “I’m sorry I said—that. Good-by.”
By her voice, she was crying. Through half-opening eyes, he saw her hair glimmer. Something warm touched his cheek.
He sat up, indignant, rubbing the spot with more energy than if the thorn had stung. A hard patter of bare feet fled up the path.
“What a silly girl!” thought Miles, in disgust. “Glad nobody was round.”
CHAPTER II
CAPTAIN FLORIO
“Runagates,” said his grandfather, with mournful relish. “I had hoped you—but what’s in the blood will out. All runagates!”
Athwart the dim panes of the bedchamber, hackmatack boughs swayed to the chill drone of a dying wind. A rigid profile against twilight, the old man spoke as to some third presence. Often the boy had seen that profile, ploughing a furrow of thought which cast him aside; yet he stirred on his pillows uneasily, almost guiltily.