There was sufficient light for her to see the eager gladness in his face as he stood before her, his broad-brimmed hat in his hand, and the curling locks blowing riotously about his brows.
"Mary," was all he said; but his voice was filled with something she had never heard there before.
"Dorothy wishes to speak with you at once," she replied, the faint light giving her courage to keep her eyes upraised to his, for his voice and manner made her heart tremulous.
He drew her hand within his arm, and as they turned away from the shore his other hand stole up and clasped the small soft fingers that rested so lightly upon his sleeve; and he felt them tremble as his own closed more tightly about them.
"Mary," he said once more, and she lifted her face to meet the eyes she felt were bent upon it.
His face was shadowed by his hat-brim; but she could feel his heart beating against the arm he pressed closely to his side, and she could hear how hard and fast he was breathing.
Making no answer, she only looked at him, until without a word he bent his head and kissed her.
"Why, John!" and her voice was well-nigh choked by mingled embarrassment and joy. "Dorothy will see you."
"Aye," he said stoutly; "and I hope she may, and all else in the world see me doing a like thing many times."
They had now come to a halt, and he said impetuously: "I cannot wait another minute, sweetheart, to tell you that I love you; only you surely knew it long ago. But what I do not know, and must know at once, is whether my love is returned."