“Miss Colton,” I said, hesitatingly, “if you really are not—if you are sure your people will not worry about you—I—I should be glad to share my lunch with you. Then we could go home together afterward.”
She did not look at me now. Instead she turned her head.
“Are—are you sure there is enough for two?” she asked, in a curiously choked tone.
By way of answer I led the horse to the bushes, drew the lunch basket from the shade, and threw back the cover. Dorinda's picnic lunches were triumphs and she had never put up a more tempting one.
Miss Colton looked down into the basket.
“Oh!” she exclaimed.
“There appears to be enough, doesn't there?” I observed, drily.
“But—but I couldn't think of . . . Are you sure I won't be . . . Thank you. Yes, I'll stay.”
Before I could offer my hand to help her from the saddle she sprang to the ground. Her eyes were sparkling.
“Mr. Paine,” she said, in a burst of confidence, “it is shameless to tell you so, I know, but I was dreadfully afraid you weren't going to ask me. I am absolutely STARVED.”