chose. She was never afraid now that she was strong again and baby was well.
One evening sitting thus, her babe lying asleep on her knees and her heart over the sea, something caused her to start from her revery and look away from the blue distance, toward the cabin. There, a few paces away, regarding her intently, stalwart and dark, handsome and eager, stood Frale. Much older he seemed, more reckless he appeared, yet still a youth in his undisciplined impulse. She sat pale as death, unable to move, in breathless amazement.
He smiled upon her out of the gathering dusk. For some minutes he had been regarding her, and the tumult within him had become riotous with long restraint. He came swiftly forward and, ere she could turn her head, his arms were about her, and his lips upon hers, and she felt herself pinioned in her chair—nor, for guarding her baby unhurt by his vehemence, could she use her hands to hold him from her; nor for the suffocating beating of her heart could she cry out; neither would her cry have availed, for there were none near to hear her.
"Stop, Frale! I am not yours; stop, Frale," she implored.
"Yas, you are mine," he said, in his low drawl, lifting his head to gaze in her face. "You gin me your promise. That doctah man, he done gone an' lef' you all alone, and he ain't nevah goin' to come back to these here mountins."
She snatched her hands from the child on her knees, and, with