“You are like the moth who would flutter around the flame, although it knows that therein lies danger, a singed wing, perhaps death,” he said, slowly. “The lilies are not worth such a sacrifice.”
“I should not mind making it to possess them,” declared Jess, very coolly. “I should like to gather them, and surprise the folks at the farmhouse by wearing them in to breakfast in my hair and in my belt.”
An expression of deep annoyance crossed his fine face.
“Vain, and proud of adornment—at any cost,” was his mental comment, as he looked down at the eager, flushed face coldly.
“I dare you to row me out to them, Mr. Moore!” she cried, shrilly. “What do you say?”
Without a word, he commenced to untie the boat.
“You—consent!” cried Jess, excitedly, and with shining eyes.
“I will go for them, alone,” he replied, quietly, stepping into the boat, and with a dexterous movement pushing away from the shore almost before she could divine his intention.
“Oh, Mr. Moore, let me go with you, to manage the boat if—if it become unmanageable!” she cried, her face blanched to a whiteness rivaling the leaves of the snow-white lilies.
He shook his head emphatically.