When Joan thought how Jim loved her, all the details of that night became vivid.  She sat alone under the spruce-trees near the cabin.  The shadows thickened, and then lightened under a rising moon.  She heard the low hum of insects, a distant laugh of some woman of the village, and the murmur of the brook.  Jim was later than usual.  Very likely, as her uncle had hinted, Jim had tarried at the saloon that had lately disrupted the peace of the village.  The village was growing, and Joan did not like the change.  There were too many strangers, rough, loud-voiced, drinking men.  Once it had been a pleasure to go to the village store; now it was an ordeal.  Somehow Jim had seemed to be unfavorably influenced by these new conditions.  Still, he had never amounted to much.  Her resentment, or some feeling she had, was reaching a climax.  She got up from her seat.  She would not wait any longer for him, and when she did see him it would be to tell him a few blunt facts.

Just then there was a slight rustle behind her.  Before she could turn someone seized her in powerful arms.  She was bent backward in a bearish embrace, so that she could neither struggle nor cry out.  A dark face loomed over hers—­came closer.  Swift kisses closed her eyes, burned her cheeks, and ended passionately on her lips.  They had some strange power over her.  Then she was released.

Joan staggered back, frightened, outraged.  She was so dazed she did not recognize the man, if indeed she knew him.  But a laugh betrayed him.  It was Jim.

“You thought I had no nerve,” he said.  “What do you think of that?”

Suddenly Joan was blindly furious.  She could have killed him.  She had never given him any right, never made him any promise, never let him believe she cared.  And he had dared—!  The hot blood boiled in her cheeks.  She was furious with him, but intolerably so with herself, because somehow those kisses she had resented gave her unknown pain and shame.  They had sent a shock through all her being.  She thought she hated him.

“You—­you—­” she broke out.  “Jim Cleve, that ends you with me!”

“Reckon I never had a beginning with you,” he replied, bitterly.  “It was worth a good deal ...  I’m not sorry ...  By Heaven—­I’ve—­kissed you!”

He breathed heavily.  She could see how pale he had grown in the shadowy moonlight.  She sensed a difference in him—­a cool, reckless defiance.

“You’ll be sorry,” she said.  “I’ll have nothing to do with you any more.”

“All right.  But I’m not, and I won’t be sorry.”

She wondered whether he had fallen under the influence of drink.  Jim had never cared for liquor, which virtue was about the only one he possessed.  Remembering his kisses, she knew he had not been drinking.  There was a strangeness about him, though, that she could not fathom.  Had he guessed his kisses would have that power?  If he dared again—!  She trembled, and it was not only rage.  But she would teach him a lesson.