“What you lookin’ for?” I asked.
“I was thinkin’, Davy,” she said, still gazing through the window, “that Skipper Zach Tupper might be comin’ in from the Last Chance grounds with a fish for breakfast.”
The Last Chance grounds? ’Twas ignorance beyond belief! “Bessie,” I said, with heat, “is you gone mad? Doesn’t you know that no man in his seven senses would fish the Last Chance grounds in a light southerly wind? Why——”
“Well,” she interrupted, with a pretty pout, “you knows so well as me that Zach Tupper haven’t got his seven senses.”
“Bessie!”
She peeked towards South Tickle again; and then—what a wonder-worker the divine malady is!—she leaned eagerly forward, her sewing falling unheeded to the floor; and her soft breast rose and fell to a rush of sweet emotion, and her lips parted in delicious wonderment, and the blood came back to her cheeks, and her dimples were no longer pathetic, but eloquent of sweetness and innocence, and her eyes turned moist and brilliant, glowing with the glory of womanhood first recognized, tender and pure. Ah, my sister—lovely in person but lovelier far in heart and mind—adorably innocent—troubled and destined to infinitely deeper distress before the end—brave and true and hopeful through all the chequered course of love! You had not known, dear heart, but then discovered, all in a heavenly flash, what sickness you suffered of.
“Davy!” she whispered.
“Ay, dear?”
“I’m knowin’—now—what ails me.”
I sat gazing at her in love and great awe. “’Tis not a wickedness, Bessie,” I declared.