"It's too dark for you to be out alone," he said, in his embarrassed, tender voice. "Yes, it's pretty dark," said Rose. Her voice shook. They had passed the last group of returning people. Suddenly Rose, in spite of herself, began to cry. She sobbed wildly, and the boy, full of alarm and sympathy, walked on by her side. "There ain't anything--scared you, has there?" he stammered out, awkwardly, at length. "No," sobbed Rose. "You ain't sick?" "No, it isn't anything." The boy held her arm closer; he trembled and almost sobbed himself with sympathy. Before they reached the old tavern Rose had stopped crying--she even tried to laugh and turn it off with a jest. "I don't know what got into me," she said; "I guess I was nervous." "I didn't know but something had scared you," said the boy. They stood on the door-steps; the house was dark. Rose's parents had gone to bed, and William was out. The boy still held Rose's arm. He had adored her secretly ever since he was a child, and he had never dared as much as that before. He had thought of Rose like a queen or a princess, and the thought had ennobled his boyish ignorance and commonness. "No, I wasn't scared," said Rose, and something in her voice gave sudden boldness to her young lover. He released her arm, and put both his arms around her. "I'm sorry you feel so bad," he whispered, panting. "It isn't anything," returned Rose, but she half sobbed again; the boy's round cheek pressed against her wet, burning one. He was several years younger than she. She had half scorned him, but she had one of those natures that crave love for its own sweetness as palates crave sugar. She wept a little on his shoulder; and the boy, half beside himself with joy and terror, stood holding her fast in his arms. "Don't feel bad," he kept whispering. Finally Rose raised herself. "I must go in," she whispered; "good-night." The boy's pleading face, his innocent, passionate lips approached hers, and they kissed each other. "Don't you--like me a little?" gasped the boy. "Maybe I will," Rose whispered back. His face came closer, and she kissed him again. Then, with a murmured "good-night," she fled into the house, and the boy went down the hill with sweeter dreams in his heart than those which she had lost. Chapter X On the Sunday following the one of Barnabas Thayer's call Sylvia Crane appeared at meeting in a black lace veil like a Spanish senorita. The heavily wrought black lace fell over her face, and people could get only shifting glimpses of her delicate features behind it.