'O 'tis dabbling in the dew that makes the milkmaids fair.'
"But 'tis so—unseasonable! So altogether—er—irregular, as 'twere——"
"Egad sir and you're i' the right on't!" she mocked. "'Tis unseasonable, unreasonable, unwomanly, unvirginal and altogether unthinkable as 'twere and so forth d'ye see! Major d'Arcy is probably pining for his downy bed. Major d'Arcy must continue to pine unless he will leave a poor maid to wander alone among bats and owls and newts and toads and worms and goblins and other noxious things——"
"But Betty, indeed——"
"Aye, John—indeed! To-night you did look on me as I had committed—as I had been—O 'twas a hateful look! And for that look I'll be avenged, and my vengeance is this, to wit—you shall sleep no wink this night! Your arm sir, come!"
Almost unwillingly he gave her his arm and they went on slowly down the lane; but before they had gone very far that long arm was close about her and had swept her into his embrace.
"Betty," he murmured, "to be alone with you thus in a sleeping world 'tis surely a foretaste of heaven." He would have drawn her yet nearer but she stayed him with arms outstretched.
"John," said she, "you ha' not forgot how you looked at me to-night, as I were—impure—unworthy? O John!" The Major was silent. "It angered me, John but—ah, it hurt me more! O Jack, how could you?" But now, seeing him stand abashed and silent, her repelling arms relaxed and she came a little nearer. "Indeed John, I'll allow you had some small—some preposterously pitiful small excuse. And you might answer that one cannot come nigh pitch without being defiled. But had you said anything so foolish I—I should ha' sent you home to bed—at once!" Here the Major drew her a little nearer. "But John," she sighed, "you did doubt me for awhile—I saw it in your eyes. Look at me again, John—here a little closer—here where the light falls clear—look, and tell me—am I different? Do I seem any less worthy your love than I was yesterday?"
"No," he answered, gazing into her deep eyes. "O my Betty, God help me if ever I lost faith in you, for 'twould be the end of hope and faith for me."
"But you did lose faith to-night, John—for a little while! And so you shall sue pardon on your knees, here at my feet—nay, 'tis damp, mayhap. I'll sit yonder on the bank and you shall kneel upon a fold of my cloak. Come!"