She had never before seen that expression in a face, or heard that tone in a voice; and they frightened her at the same time that they thrilled and flattered her. "Oh, goodness!" she faltered. "I must hurry back—before they come down—and miss me." She started, with a quick step, toward the house; and he stumbled in the snow as he turned with her, looking at her—instead of watching the path he was walking—and gone suddenly dumb. "I hope they don't see me," she said. "You mustn't come to the door." She stopped abruptly. How ever shall I tell mother!"
He asked, startled: "Tell her what?"
"Why, that I—I ran after you?"
"Don't tell her. Tell her you met me at church, I'll meet you there."
She hinted guiltily: "I promised her I wouldn't write."
"Well, you didn't, did you?"
"No, I only wrote Jessie. But if I make an appointment to meet you, isn't that"
"Don't make it. I'll meet you."
"Where?"
"You're not to know. What time will you be going—to church?"
She started forward rapidly again, without answering, but he kept pace with her. "To St. Stephen's?" he pressed her. "It's right ahead of us—about four blocks up the street." When she did not reply, he suggested, with an appealing timidity: "At ten o'clock?"
