CHAPTER XXV.
LOVE’S TRAPS FOR CONFESSIONS.
Some time before nightfall, the two having shared their luncheons together and wandered on, through the delightful patches of sunlight, slanting through the trees, they came upon one of the farms where Garde had already tested the hospitality of the good people residing by the highway.
Here, by a little dexterity, and through Adam’s generosity toward the delicate boy, to whom he had taken such a fancy, Garde occupied the spare apartment she had made her own when headed in the other direction, and Adam contented himself in the hay-loft of the barn.
In the morning they were up betimes, to greet another smiling sun, and so resumed their leisurely journey toward the north. At noon they halted as before, and made a meal of the stock of bread and other provisions they had been able to secure at the farm-house.
Garde sat upon a mossy bank, while Adam reclined on a stone, somewhat below her woodland throne. Adam looked at her so long and so steadfastly that she grew most uneasy, lest he were about to pierce her disguise.
“What are you looking at?” she said, with an attempt to be boyishly pert.
“I was looking at your legs,” said Adam, frankly. “They are uncommonly symmetrical, but a shade too pretty for a boy.”
Garde immediately bent the plump objects of interest underneath her and sat on her heels.
“You find a great deal of fault with me,” she said, a little vexed.