“It's too dark for you to be out alone,” he said, in his embarrassed, tender voice.
“Yes, it's pretty dark,” said Rose. Her voice shook. They had passed the last group of returning people. Suddenly Rose, in spite of herself, began to cry. She sobbed wildly, and the boy, full of alarm and sympathy, walked on by her side.
“There ain't anything—scared you, has there?” he stammered out, awkwardly, at length.
“No,” sobbed Rose.
“You ain't sick?”
“No, it isn't anything.”
The boy held her arm closer; he trembled and almost sobbed himself with sympathy. Before they reached the old tavern Rose had stopped crying—she even tried to laugh and turn it off with a jest. “I don't know what got into me,” she said; “I guess I was nervous.”
“I didn't know but something had scared you,” said the boy.
They stood on the door-steps; the house was dark. Rose's parents had gone to bed, and William was out. The boy still held Rose's arm. He had adored her secretly ever since he was a child, and he had never dared as much as that before. He had thought of Rose like a queen or a princess, and the thought had ennobled his boyish ignorance and commonness.
“No, I wasn't scared,” said Rose, and something in her voice gave sudden boldness to her young lover.