The boy still held Rose's arm. He
had adored her secretly ever since he was a child, and he had never
dared as much as that before. He had thought of Rose like a queen or
a princess, and the thought had ennobled his boyish ignorance and
commonness.
"No, I wasn't scared," said Rose, and something in her voice gave
sudden boldness to her young lover.
He released her arm, and put both his arms around her. "I'm sorry you
feel so bad," he whispered, panting.
"It isn't anything," returned Rose, but she half sobbed again; the
boy's round cheek pressed against her wet, burning one. He was
several years younger than she. She had half scorned him, but she had
one of those natures that crave love for its own sweetness as palates
crave sugar.
She wept a little on his shoulder; and the boy, half beside himself
with joy and terror, stood holding her fast in his arms.
"Don't feel bad," he kept whispering. Finally Rose raised herself. "I
must go in," she whispered; "good-night."
The boy's pleading face, his innocent, passionate lips approached
hers, and they kissed each other.
"Don't you--like me a little?" gasped the boy.
"Maybe I will," Rose whispered back. His face came closer, and she
kissed him again. Then, with a murmured "good-night," she fled into
the house, and the boy went down the hill with sweeter dreams in his
heart than those which she had lost.
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