She could not laugh or mock him with empty coquetry as she looked into his eyes, for here was no longer the merry, careless youth who tossed yellow blossoms into her apron, but a man who was ready to be lover, too.
And she had sighed so long for one—ever since Lady Helmington promised last autumn to take her to London.
"Thank you," she answered, quite simply in return. "I—I do not think I shall be afraid of Morry's friends again."
Michael's eyes flashed.
"If they give you reason to be so," quoth he, "I pray you tell me their names. They shall learn a lesson in manners at least—from a traitor's son."
The last words revealed—in part—to the girl a latent bitterness in this man's life. Yet she smiled as she ran home, through the wicket and over the lawns, leaving a trail of primrose blooms behind her, for she knew that thus unexpectedly on a May day she had reached womanhood's first goal.
CHAPTER VII
THE PRODIGAL'S RETURN
Michael Berrington walked home alone, but he was no longer lonely.