"For hours and days and weeks," she sighed.
"Then you--cared--cared a little for me?"
She kept silence. And he, wanting intensely to look up, did not.
"Tell me," he insisted, with a hint of the old dominance. He
remembered again the scene at the crossing of the brook. Could he
control this wonderful girl now?
"Of course," she replied.
"But--how do you care?" he added, more forcibly. He felt ashamed,
yet he could not resist it. What was happening to him?
"I--I love you." Her voice was low, almost faltering, rich with
sweetness, and full of some unutterable emotion.
Neale sustained a shock. He never could have told how that affected
him, except in his sudden fury at himself. Then he stole a glance at
her. Her eyes were downcast, hidden under long lashes; her face was
soft and sweet, dreaming and spiritual, singularly pure; her breast
heaved under the beaded buckskin. Neale divined she had never
dreamed of owing him anything except the maiden love which quivered
on her tremulous lips and hovered in the exquisite light of her
countenance. And now he received a great and impelling change in his
spirit, an uplift, a splendid and beautiful consciousness of his
good fortune. But what could he say to her? If only he could safely
pass over this moment, so he could have time to think, to find
himself.
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