"Oh, Kenny," she sighed, "I wish Donald would write!"
The wish jarred. Kenny frowned. How could he wish it too! And yet, not wishing was disloyal, disloyal to Brian. Upset, he turned, hurt and sulky. And presently as Joan, busy with thoughts of the truant brother, continued unaware of the melancholy in his mood that never failed to make its appeal to her tenderness, he began to hum.
Joan looked up.
"What a queer, wild tune!" she exclaimed. "What is it, Kenny? I've never heard you sing it before."
"I never felt the need," said Kenny. "It's called the 'Twisting of the Rope.' Long, long ago, girleen, a harper's gallantry to a pretty maid angered her mother and she asked him to help her twist a straw rope. And he did. And twisting he had to back away and over the threshold and the mother slammed the door in his face. Faith, 'twas all to get rid of him!"
It was impossible to miss the point. Joan's face went scarlet.
"Oh, Kenny!" she said. "You knew—surely you knew I couldn't mean that."
It was a new delight to hear her say it.
"When Donald writes," reminded Kenny, "then I must go." And watching the girl's troubled face, he wondered with a thrill of triumph if at last the madness of the summer was upon her. Well, thank Heaven, he was honest and honorable. He would stay until the madness waned. Always he was fated to climb down out of the clouds first.
Ah! But what if Joan slipped back into sense and sanity first? The possibility filled him with panic. What on earth would he do?