She raised hers shyly to his, blushed deeply and turned away, shaking her head.  The power to divine what she saw was born with her.

“Yes, I understand you,” he said very gently, “but you can’t help it, any more than the sun’s shining.  Some day your heart may be cold and sad, and the memory of what you have just seen may warm and cheer it Miss Lou, you brave, noble little child-woman, didn’t you see that my love was your servant—­that it merely gives you power over me?  Even as my wife you would be as free as I would be.  Now good-by.  We part here and not before others.  Chunk is yonder with my horse.  Be just as happy as you can whether we ever meet again or not.”  “Then—­then—­if you don’t come again?” she faltered.

“I shall be dead, but don’t believe this too hastily.”

“You’ve been kind,” she burst out passionately, “you’ve treated me with respect, as if I had a right to myself.  You have saved me from what I dreaded far worse than death.  You shall not go away, perhaps to die, without—­without—­without—­oh, think of me only as a grateful child whose life you’ve kept from being spoiled.”

“I shall not go away without—­what?” he asked eagerly.

“Oh, I don’t know.  What shall I say?  My heart aches as if it would break at the thought of anything happening to you.”  She dropped on the grass and, burying her face in her hands, sobbed aloud.

He knelt beside her and sought to take one of her hands.

Suddenly she hid her face against his breast for a moment and faltered, “Love me as a child now and leave me.”

“You have given me my orders, little girl, and they would be obeyed as far as you could see were I with you every day.”

“Lieutenant Scoville!” shouted the distant voice of an orderly.  He hastily kissed away the tears in her eyes, exclaiming, “Never doubt my return, if living,” and was gone.

In a moment he had passed through the shrubbery.  Before she had regained self-control and followed he was speeding his horse toward the ridge.  “There, he has gone without his dinner,” she said in strong self-reproach, hastening to the cabin.  Chunk, who was stuffing a chicken and cornbread into a haversack, reassured her.  “Doan you worry, Miss Lou,” he said.  “Dis yere chicken gwine ter foller ’im right slam troo eberyting till hit cotch up,” and he galloped after his new “boss” in a way to make good his words.

CHAPTER XXI

TWO STORMS

Miss Lou sank wearily on the doorstep of Aun’ Jinkey’s cabin where the reader first made her acquaintance.  She drew a long sigh.  “Oh, I must rest and get my breath.  So much is happening!”