"All right. Ye needn't go to the pit, then, and I won't come."

"Flip!"

"And here's Dad coming. Quick!"

Lance chose to put his own interpretation on this last adjuration. The
resisting little hand was now lying quite limp on his shoulder, He drew
her brown, bright face near his own, felt her spiced breath on his lips,
his cheeks, his hot eyelids, his swimming eyes, kissed her, hurriedly
replaced his wig and blanket, and dropped beside the fire with the
tremulous laugh of youth and innocent first passion. Flip had withdrawn
to the window, and was looking out upon the rocking pines.

"He don't seem to be coming," said Lance, with a half-shy laugh.

"No," responded Flip demurely, pressing her hot oval cheek against the
wet panes; "I reckon I was mistaken. You're sure," she added, looking
resolutely another way, but still trembling like a magnetic needle
toward Lance, as he moved slightly before the fire, "you're SURE you'd
like me to come to you?"

"Sure, Flip?"

"Hush!" said Flip, as this reassuring query of reproachful astonishment
appeared about to be emphasized by a forward amatory dash of Lance's;
"hush! he's coming this time, sure."

It was, indeed, Fairley, exceedingly wet, exceedingly bedraggled,