“Dash your impudence, Hennion!” protested one of the group. “Do you think you fellows of the cavalry can plunder everything? Pay no heed to him, Miss Meredith, I beg of you.”
"Ay," echoed another, ’t is the artillery the major should belong to, for he’d do to repair the brass cannon.”
The girl stood irresolute for a breath, then, though she coloured, she said steadily, “Certainly, if you wish it, Philemon.”
While they were passing the rows of camp-fires and tents, the major was silent, but once these were behind them he said:—
“’T would be idle, Janice, to make any pretence of why I wished to see you apart. You must know it as well as I.”
“I suppose I do, Philemon,” assented the girl, quietly.
“A long time we’ve been parted, but not once has my love for you lessened, and—and in Philadelphia you held out a little hope that I’ve lived on ever since. You said that the squire held to his promise, and that—did you—do you still think as you—”
“Have you spoken to dadda?”
“No. For—for I was afraid he’d force you against your will. Once I was eager to take you even so, but I hope you won’t judge me for that. I was an unthinking boy then.”
“We all make mistakes, Philemon, and would that I could outlive mine as well as you have yours,” Janice answered gently.