They were drawing up to the inn now, and through the window saw the little group about the fire, Darby with the baby, who was fully awake, perched high on his shoulder.
Berwick caught Deb gently, swinging her close to him, as they stood in the shadow of the oak.
"Ah, Deb!" he said, bending his face to hers, "thou could'st make me swear that black was white. As for Darby, the lad is as tall as thou dost desire. Thou hast my word for't."
"'Tis well thou dost own it," she said, frowning; "though I like not the manner o' it. Let me go, Nick."
"Nay, I will not," he said, passionately. "Be kind; give me one kiss for Christmas. I know thou hast no love for me; thou hast told me so often enough. I will not tarry here, Sweet; 'twould madden me—but give me one kiss to remember when I be gone."
She turned away and shook her head.
"Thou know'st me better than to ask it," she said, softly. "Kisses are not things to give because 'tis Christmas."
The man let go his hold of her, his handsome face darkening.
"Dost hate me?" he asked.
"Nay, then, I hate thee not," with a little toss of her head. "Neither do I love thee."