She watched him indulgently. She had to like him. He was the kind of boy a girl couldn't help liking. He was vital, magnetic and exceptionally good looking. He sang and danced and flirted, but beneath the fun and foolishness slumbered a fine spirit, tender, reverent, deeply religious. It was this undercurrent of strength that drew the girl. He was always humming a song, his heart bubbling over with joy. He had never uttered an oath or touched a drop of liquor amid all the gaiety of the times in which he lived.
"Miss Mary," he began slowly.
"Now Jeb," she interrupted. "You don't have to, you know—"
Stuart threw his head back, laughed, and sang a stanza from "Annie
Laurie" in a low, tender voice. He paused and faced his fair tormentor.
"Miss Mary, I've got to!"
"You don't have to make love to me just because you're my brother's classmate—"
"You know I'm not!" he protested.
"You're about to begin."
"But not for that reason, Miss Mary—"
He held her gaze so seriously that she blushed before she could recover her poise. He saw his advantage and pressed it.