She endeavored to brush past on the lower side of the pathway; the sheer cut of the hill obstructed the upper. He put out a friendly hand, catching her arm in rude assertiveness. "Not so fast. You're the Cole gal, ain't you?" "I'm Diana Cole. I'm going home." Her tone trailed off weakly, as he stepped closer. She could see his face now, uncertain eyes squinting directly at her. "Hey, good-looker," he dropped to an ingratiating whisper, with a leer to increase the effectiveness of his words. "What you say--wanter show me a bit of good time? What you say?" She tried to shake herself free. "Let me go! Don't dare touch me----" "Don't say dare," Jim Hewin said warmly, his left hand sliding appraisingly up the bared softness of her right arm. "Plump, eh? Nice piece of dark meat. I like you; I'll treat you right." A gust of sudden fright, the blind fright of the female when her well-ordered maiden state is first threatened, shook over her; her arm lashed out impotently. He stepped aside to avoid the blow. "If you touch me ... I'll kill you...." Her words were gasps. He held her arms again, pushing them behind her until her face was close before his. "You black devil! I've a mind to----" Then he pulled her closer, fastening his dry lips against her protesting mouth. For a hushed second she took the unexpected caress quiescently; then fought, kicked, scratched, to get away. He held her firmly, shaking her until she ceased. Then he let her go. She ran a few frightened steps, then turned in the dusky safety, facing him. Her mind held only an outraged hate; her feelings quivered and rioted in disquieting turmoil. He smacked his lips broadly. "You--you white trash----" He faced her coldly. "When I want you,"--whistling, as though calling a dog, he turned up toward the crest--"you'll come...." Her heart panting in wrenching excitement, she listened to his retreating steps. She stared, helplessly rooted in the accusing silence. Her knees trembled; she waited to regain strength. Then she moved heavily toward the house, entering by the rickety kitchen steps in the rear. With a child's helpless seeking, she walked down the hall. She must tell her mother at once. She heard Stella's rocker moving monotonously on the sagging front porch. A loose board squeaked in soothing rhythm. Sharply she visualized the simple, wrinkled face.... It could never understand.... She turned wearily into her own room, and threw herself face downward on the bed. The loud pounding of her heart frightened her; she turned upon her back, staring at the constricted darkness of the blank ceiling. XVII