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 her tenderly. “Not for twenty Englands, I wouldn’t.” His touch soothed her and she grew more quiet.

“Of—of course you w-wouldn’t,” she murmured. “But I w-wish you would.”

Her hands met around his neck and he raised her chin and kissed her on the mouth. It was a kiss of plighted troth, of tenderness, faith and the exalted passion that comes with tears.

“Mated?” he whispered.

“Yes—yes,” she murmured faintly.

They did not move for a long moment when Doris slowly disengaged her arms from around his neck and moved slightly away. Her hair had fallen and hung in golden disorder about her shoulders. She put up her arm, trying to catch the escaping pins, and then she smiled at him, dimpling adorably.

“Come,” he said gently. “You must get to bed. Your coat is nearly dry, but I’ll cover you with my jacket. You must sleep, too. No shammin’, you know. Can’t tell what may happen tomorrow.”

“I’ll try,” she murmured obediently, while he led her to the couch of boughs and made her lie on it. But as he knelt beside her, covering her with his jacket, she caught his hands and would not relinquish them. He raised hers to his lips and kissed them again and again: small, muscular hands they were, but now very brown and dirty. “Are you comfortable? Sorry I haven’t a tub.”

She was silent a moment and then straightened and asked him:

“You promised to tell me about the papers. Won’t you?”

He laughed.

“Not now. It must be nearly morning.”