It isn't far; it's warm, and"--
"What?"
"I'll come, after a bit, and see you. Quit foolin' now. If you'd only
have come here like yourself--like--like--a white man."
"The old man," interrupted Lance, "would have just passed me on to the
summit. I couldn't have played the lost fisherman on him at this time
of year."
"Ye could have been stopped at the Crossing by high water, you silly,"
said the girl. "It was." This grammatical obscurity referred to the
stage-coach.
"Yes, but I might have been tracked to this cabin. And look here,
Flip," he said, suddenly straightening himself, and lifting the girl's
face to a level with his own, "I don't want you to lie any more for me.
It ain't right."
"All right. Ye needn't go to the pit, then, and I won't come."
"Flip!"
"And here's Dad coming. Quick!"
Lance chose to put his own interpretation on this last adjuration. The
resisting little hand was now lying quite limp on his shoulder. He drew
her brown, bright face near his own, felt her spiced breath on his
lips, his cheeks, his hot eyelids, his swimming eyes, kissed her,
hurriedly replaced his wig and blanket, and dropped beside the fire
with the tremulous laugh of youth and innocent first passion.
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