"I may grow tired of it," she insisted, watching him. "I may
behave like a naughty, perverse, ungrateful urchin, and kick and
scream and bite. . . . But you won't let me be hurt, will you?"
"No, child." His voice was laughing at her, but his eyes were
curiously grave.
She put both arms up around his neck with a quick catch of her
breath.
"I do love you--I do love you. I know it now, Phil--I know it as I
never dreamed of knowing it. . . . You will never let me be hurt,
will you? Nothing can harm me now, can it?"
"Nothing, Ailsa."
She regarded him dreamily. Sometimes her blue eyes wandered toward
the stars, sometimes toward the camp fires on the hill.
"Perfect--perfect belief in--your goodness--to me," she murmured
vaguely. "Now I shall--repay you--by perversity--misbehaviour--I
don't know what--I don't know--what----"
Her lids closed; she yielded to his embrace; one slim, detaining
hand on his shoulder held her closer, closer.
"You must--never--go away," her lips formed.
But already he was releasing her, pale but coolly master of the
situation. Acquiescent, inert, she lay in his arms, then
straightened and rested against the rail beside her.
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