“You ain’t bridle-wise yet,” said Temperance, using her accustomed formula of rebuke. And Mabella laughed aloud in defiance of reproof. The girl’s heart sang in her breast, for when Lanty helped her into her waterproof the night before he had whispered—
“At seven to-morrow night in Mullein meadow.”
She had smiled consent.
Would this long day never pass?
Vashti and Sidney were thus left solitary upon the shaded porch.
“Can you really cure headaches?” he said.
“We will see,” she answered. “But I think you had better sit in that chair.” He sat down in the rocking-chair she indicated. It was very low. As she knelt upon the top step before it her head was on a level with his. How beautiful she was, he thought. How divine the strong white column of her throat, exposed down to the little hollow which the French call Love’s bed, creased softly by the rings of Venus’ necklace.
“I wouldn’t think much if I were you,” she said, “or at least, not of many things.”
“I will think of you,” he said, feeling venturesome as an indulged child.
“Ah,” she said; “your cure will be quick,” and then bending gracefully forward she began making simple strokes across his forehead, letting her finger-tips touch lightly together between his eyebrows, and drawing them softly, as if with a persuasive sweep, to either side. There was much magnetism in that splendid frame of hers, and much potency in her will, and much subtle suggestion in those caressing finger-tips.