“But you haven’t kissed me yet.” She stamped her foot. “Nor ever shall!” she cried. “Then here goes,” he said, and slipped it into his pocket. At that she rushed at him and wound her arms about him like a young panther. “Shall I tear you with my teeth?” she said, but instead she smoothed his face with one hand disengaged and murmured to him: “Modred, dear, you got it for me, you know; you said so.” “And precious frightened I was, Zyp.” “Well, it is mine, isn’t it?” “If you give me the kiss.” My father’s step on the stairs brought our heads in with a clatter. We heard them scuttle into the house, and a moment later they appeared in the room. Modred’s face was flushed and bore a heavy, embarrassed expression, but Zyp looked quite cool and self-possessed. I took no notice of her during the meal, but talked, daring in my misery, to my father, who condescended to answer me now and again, and I could see that she wondered at me. Supper over, I hurried to my room, and shutting myself in, went and sat by the window and gave my tormented soul to the night. Had I never met Zyp, I doubt if I should ever in my manhood have realized what the grown-up, I think, seldom do, the amount of torture and wrong the young heart may endure without bursting--with no hope of sympathy, moreover, except that half-amused tolerant form of it which the old think it sufficient to extend to youth’s elastic grievances. By and by Jason stole in. For some little time he sat upon his bed, silent; then he said in a soft voice: “Let’s cry quits, Renny. I think I’ve paid you out for that little accident of the meads.” “I hate you!” I said, quietly, and indeed it seemed to me that his cruelty deserved no better a reward. He laughed, and was silent again, and presently began to undress for bed, whistling softly all the time. I took no notice of him; but long after when he was breathing peacefully asleep, I laid my own aching head, tired with misery, on the pillow, and tried to follow his example. I was not to succeed until faint daylight came through the casement and the birds were twittering outside--was never, indeed, to know sleep in its innocence again. CHAPTER VII. THE POOL OF DEATH. Morning brought a pitcher of comfort with it on its gossamer wings. Who, at 17, can wake from restoring sleep to find the June sun on his face and elect to breakfast on bitter wormwood, with the appetizing fry of good country bacon caressing his nostrils through every chink of the boards? Indeed, I was not born to hate, or to any decided vice or virtue, but was of those who, taking a middle course, are kicked to the wall or into the gutter as the Fates have a fancy. I was friendly with myself, with Jason--almost with Zyp, who had so bedeviled me. After all, I thought, the measure of her regard for me might be more in a winning friendliness than in embraces such as she had bestowed upon Modred.