"Can't I even look at you? A friend could do that."
"But that was different," she answered. "It was—" The look of yearning love upon his face moved her strangely. She felt the impatient tears flood her eyes. Meanwhile he hastened to speak of other things.
"Do you remember how you used to tie your hair up in two tight little braids?" he asked—"always tied with red ribbon?"
"Mother did that," she answered promptly. "I hated it. I used to tell her they made my head ache. I've forgotten now whether they did or not. But it wasn't always red ribbon."
"Wasn't it?" he asked. "That's what I remember."
"Some things you've forgotten, you see," she told him. "It is easy to forget, after all."
The door of the passage below them opened, and some one stumbled toward them. It was Drew. Medbury slipped away, vexed at the interruption, but Hetty turned a relieved face to the newcomer. In this difference lay the measure of their love.
Reaching the deck, Drew almost dropped in the place where Medbury had been sitting. He removed his cap from his head, and passed his hand across his forehead. From the forecastle floated aft, above the jangling noises of the brig, the faint strains of an accordion.
"Just at this moment I have no higher ambition than to sit out there and play like that," said Drew, turning his head to listen.
"It sounds rather nice at sea," said the girl. "Maybe it's because I've always heard it there that I like it."