He kissed her hair and pressed his cheek against it where the shadows were soft and golden.
"I want you, heart of mine," he said steadily, "to love me in this wonderful way that I love you. There are ways and ways of loving."
That, in her girlhood dream of love, she could not see. And Kenny was passionately glad that his words were a riddle.
Then the horn came, clear and mellow, through the cold November air and Joan drew the hood of her cloak about her head.
Kenny sighed. He clung to her hand as she started away.
"Girleen," he said soberly, "the wind's cold. Must you ferry the river in winter, too?"
"Save when there's ice," said Joan. "The bridge is three long miles away."
From the barn doorway he watched the flutter of her cloak as she hurried down the path to the river.