“He said I must give him my word never to see you or speak to you again.  I refused, of course.  He threatened to lock me up.  He said things about you that put me beside myself.  We said ghastly things to each other.  We are very much alike.  You’d better think twice before you marry into such a family, Ambrose.”

“I take my chance,” he said.

“I’m sorry now,” Colina went on.  “I know he is, too.  Poor old fellow!  I have you.”

“You mustn’t break with him yet,” said Ambrose anxiously.

“I know.  But how can I go back and humble myself?”

“He’ll meet you half-way.”

“If—­if we could only get in the dugout and go now!” she breathed.

He did not answer.  She saw him turn pale.

“Wouldn’t it be the best way,” she murmured, “since it’s got to be anyway?”

He drew a long breath and shook his head.

“I wouldn’t take you now,” he said doggedly.

“Of course not!” she said quickly.  “I was only joking.  But why?” she added weakly.  Her hand crept into his.

“It wouldn’t be fair,” he said, frowning.  “It would be taking too much from you.”

“Too much!” she murmured, with an obscure smile.

Ambrose struggled with the difficulty of explaining what he meant.  “I never do anything prudent myself.  I hate it.  But I can’t let you chuck everything—­without thinking what you are doing.  You ought to stay home a while—­and be sure.”

“It isn’t going to be so easy,” she said, “quarreling continually.”

“I sha’n’t see you again until I come for you,” said Ambrose.  “And it’s useless to write letters from Moultrie to Enterprise.  I’m out of the way.  Why can’t the question of me be dropped between you and your father?”

“Think of living on from month to month without a word!  It will be ghastly!” she cried.

“You’ve only known me two days,” he said sagely.  “I could not leave such a gap as that.”

“How coldly you can talk about it!” she cried rebelliously.

Ambrose frowned again.  “When you call me cold you shut me up,” he said quietly.

“But if you do not make a fuss about me every minute,” she said naively, “it shames me because I am so foolish about you.”

Ambrose laughed suddenly.

There followed another interlude of celestial silliness.

This time it was Colina who withdrew herself from him.

“Ah,” she said with a catch of the breath, “every minute of this is making it harder.  I shall want to die when you leave me.”

Ambrose attempted to take her in his arms again.

“No,” she insisted.  “Let us try to be sensible.  We haven’t decided yet what we’re going to do.”

“I’m going home,” said Ambrose, “to work like a galley-slave.”

“It is so far,” she murmured.

“I’ll find some way of letting you hear from me.  Twice before the winter sets in I’ll send a messenger.  And you, you keep a little book and write in it whenever you think of me, and send it back by my messenger.”