She looked up so suddenly that I ceased speaking, fearful of a rebuff; but saw only the grave, grey eyes looking straight into mine, and a sudden, deeper colour waning from her cheeks.

“Whatever I am,” said I, “I can be what I will.  Else I were no man.  If your—­ beauty—­ has moved me, that need not concern you—­ and surely not alarm you.  A woman’s beauty is her own affair.  Men take their chance with it—­ as I take mine with yours—­ that it do me no deep damage.  And if it do, or do not, our friendship is still another matter; for it means that I wish you well, desire to aid you, ease your burdens, make you secure and safe, vary your solitude with a friendly word—­ I mean, Lois, to be to you a real comrade, if you will.  Will you?”

After a moment she said: 

“What was it that you said about my—­ beauty?”

“I take my chances that it do me no deep damage.”

“Oh!  Am I to take my chance, too?”

“What chance?”

“That—­ your kindness do me—­ no damage?”

“What senseless talk is this you utter?”

She shook her head slowly, then: 

“What a strange boy!  I do not fear you.”

“Fear me?” I repeated, flushing hotly.  “What is there to fear?  I am neither yokel nor beast.”

“They say a gentleman should be more dreaded.”

I stared at her, then laughed: 

“Ask yourself how far you need have dread of me—­ when, if you desire it, you can leave me dumb, dismayed, lip-bound by your mocking tongue—­ which God knows well I fear.”

“Is my tongue so bitter then?  I did not know it.”

“I know it,” said I with angry emphasis.  “And I tell you very freely that——­”

She stole a curious glance at me.  Something halted me—­ an expression I had never yet seen there in her face, twitching at her lips—­ hovering on them now—­ parting them in a smile so sweet and winning that, silenced by the gracious transformation, unexpected, I caught my breath, astonished.

“What is your given name?” she asked, still dimpling at me, and her eyes now but two blue wells of light.

“Euan,” I said, foolish as a flattered schoolboy, and as awkward.

“Euan,” she said, still smiling at me, “I think that I could be your friend—­ if you do truly wish it.  What is it you desire of me?  Ask me once more, and make it very clear and plain.”

“Only your confidence; that is all I ask.”

“Oh!  Is that all you ask of me?” she mimicked mockingly; but so sweet her smile, and soft her voice, that I did not mind her words.

“Remember,” said I, “that I am older than you.  You are to tell me all that troubles you.”

“When?”

“Now.”

“No.  I have my washing to complete, And you must go.  Besides, I have mending, darning, and my knitting yet to do.  It all means bed and bait to me.”

“Will you not tell me why you are alone here, Lois?”