"Difference? Why, you were so blamed noisy that Etta looked round an' seen me. She'll go straight home and tell pop I was here with you."
"Vell," protested Max, "it's not seven o'clock yet, und I'm not eatin' you, vas I?"
"That don't matter. You don't know my pop!"
"Vhat'll he do?"
"He'll"—Mary remembered previous punishments for smaller offenses, and recalled the judgment that she had heard her father pronounce on a hypothetical offender. "He'll beat me till I'm near dead," she declared; "an' then, like as not, he'll turn me out of the house."
They were at pause in the shadow of an old buttonwood tree, Max leaning against the gnarled trunk, the girl facing him, erect.
Even as she sketched her possible punishment, the possible became probable. She was afraid, and this young man, who had been so deferential, so protecting, who had given her so alluring a glimpse of another world, seemed her only refuge.
He put out his hands and, gently, took both of hers.
At that touch the last of her anger melted, almost to tears.
"Look here," he said. "I've been decent to you, haven't I? I ain't tried to get fresh?"