We spread the napkin on a big stone of the quarry, and set out the feast: scones, oatcake, hard-boiled eggs, a bottle of milk, and a small flask of usquebaugh. Our hands met as we prepared the table. This was our first housekeeping; the first breakfast of our honeymoon I called it, rallying her. “Starving I may be; but starve I will in sight of food, unless you share it,” and, “It escapes me for the moment, madam, if you take sugar.” We leaned to each other across the rock, and our faces touched. Her cold cheek with the rain upon it, and one small damp curl—for many days I had to feed upon the memory of that kiss, and I feed upon it yet.
“But it beats me how you escaped them,” said I.
She laid down the bannock she had been making pretence to nibble. “Janet—that is our dairy girl—lent me her frock and shawl: her shoes too. She goes out to the milking at six, and I took her place. The fog helped me. They are hateful.”
“They are, my dear. Chevenix—”
“I mean these clothes. And I am thinking, too, of the poor cows.”
“The instinct of animals—” I lifted my glass. “Let us trust it to find means to attract the notice of two paid detectives and two volunteers.”
“I had rather count on Aunt,” said Flora, with one of her rare and adorable smiles, which fleeted as it came. “But, Anne, we must not waste time. They are so many against you, and so near. O, be serious!”
“Now you are talking like Mr. Romaine.”
“For my sake, dear!” She clasped her hands. I took them in mine across the table, and, unclasping them, kissed the palms.