"And then—then—"
"I went for help," she said, in so low a tone it seemed hardly spoken.
"First you did something you have not told me."
She waited in a sweet shame he recognized and gloried in, but he wanted the confession from her lips.
"And then?"
"You said you would teach me to say things without words," she said tremulously.
"Not now. Later. Put everything you did in words. And then—"
"I thought you were dying." She drew in a long, sighing breath.
"And you kissed me. I have a right to know, for I missed them all—"
"I did, I did," she cried vehemently. "A hundred times I kissed you. I had called my promise back from God—and I dared it. I wasn't ashamed. I would have done it if all the mountain side had been there to see—but afterwards—when that strange doctor from Farington came, and I knew he must uncover you and find my torn dress around you—