“Yes, rare in all classes, I should say. My Aunt Anne is in some ways queerly like Dorothy.”
“Indeed?”
“As I am like Jack. You may smile,—I am. Yes, and that makes me think of Jack. Poor fellow! he fancies you utterly despise him.”
“No? Does he? I will ask him to go after a bear with me. I was quite too rough with him, but really—-- However, I do not want to talk about that horrid morning. I thought he was splendidly courageous and equally outrageous.”
“There is courage and courage.”
“Yes, of course. It admits of analysis. I am often a coward myself; I am desperately afraid of some things.”
“Of what?” she said, smiling.
“I will tell you some day. It is not well to tell a woman everything; one loses interest as one satisfies curiosity.” He was on thin ice now,—but ice it was, as he found out,—what Jack would have called tickly benders.
“I have no curiosity,—none at all. I think I must go,” she said. “I really must go,” and she rose, adding, “There is Dorothy, at last.”
He was as much relieved as she. He had seen but little of this young woman, and his reason told him clearly enough that he had been near the crumbling brink of folly, and that he had better be careful. He also rose, and they went over to the cabin, where Dorothy greeted them. It was not possible for a person as shrewd as Dorothy, knowing what had passed on the beach with the bear, not to have some notion of what it might lead to in the future. She had in her a fine feminine spice of romance. Now she said, in her quiet way, “Good afternoon! Did you happen to meet my Hiram?”