Something broke in her throat and seemed to choke her. She fell back in my arms with her kerchief again to her mouth.
They saw us from the door, and Alexander-Jonita came flying towards us like the wind over the short grass of the meadow.
Jean took her kerchief away, without looking at it this time. She lifted her eyes to mine and smiled very sweetly.
“I am glad—glad,” she whispered; “do not be sorry, Quintin. But do just this one thing for me, will you, lad—but only this one thing. Do not tell them. Let us pretend. Would it be wrong, think you, to pretend a little that you love me? You are a minister, and should know. But, if you could—why, it would be so sweet. And then it would not be for long, Quintin.”
She spoke coaxingly, and withal most tenderly.
“Jean, I do love you!” I cried.
And for the first time in my life I meant it. She seemed to be like my sister Anna to me.
By this time, seeing Jonita coming, she had recovered herself somewhat and taken my arm. At my words she pressed it a little, and smiled.
“Oh,” she said, “you need not begin yet. Only before them. I want them to think that you love me a little, you see. Is it not small and foolish of me?”
“But I do—I do truly love you, Jean,” I cried. “Did you ever know me to tell a lie?”