The ground upon which she sat was cold and damp. Rosemary shivered a little and was glad. Release might come in that way, though she doubted it. She was too hopelessly healthy ever to take cold, and in all her five and twenty years had never had a day's illness.
A step beside her startled her and a kindly voice said: "Why, Rosemary! You'll take cold!"
Crimson with embarrassment she sprang to her feet, shaking the soil from her skirts. "I—I didn't hear you coming," she stammered. "I must go."
New Plans
"Please don't," Alden responded. "Remember how long it is since I've seen you. How did you happen to come up here?"
"Because—oh, I don't know! I've come sometimes to see the vineyard. I've—I've liked to watch the people at work," she concluded, lamely. "I see so few people, you know."
Alden's face softened with vague tenderness. "Was it just this last Summer you've been coming, or has it been all along?"
"I've always come—ever since I was big enough to climb the hill. I—I used to steal grapes sometimes," she confessed, "before I knew it was wrong."
"You can have all the grapes you want," he laughed. "I'll send you a basket every day, if you want them, as long as the season lasts. Why didn't you tell me before?"
"I—I never thought," she answered. She might have added that she was not accustomed to the idea of any sort of gift, but she did not put the thought into words.