Now it was he that broke the happy silence.
"I can't stand it, Sally," he said.
"Stand what, Ben?"
"Being kept away from you, and seeing—that"—he caught himself, he'd say that to his face.
"It isn't my fault, Ben. See what I've done for you tonight. If Father finds out, I don't know what will happen."
She looked up at the white, circling eye.
"Oh, Ben, look at the poor sea bird, flying against the Light."
Then even steady, prosaic Ben grew poetic, such magic has Love.
"You're the light, Sally, and I'm the wandering bird."
She shivered a little, suddenly seeing many things, such as the daughters of a race of sailors see in their frightened dreams—visions of storms and broken ships and men. She trembled and he put his arm around her.
She had not known her own heart, perhaps she did not fully know it now. But the spell of youth and the night was on her—and the spell of his presence. The protection of his arm, too, was comforting, so when, his voice a little thick and husky with feeling, he asked: "Sally, will you wait for me?" her heart stood still for one fleeting second, then she answered timidly:
"Yes, Ben."
He kissed the black hair tenderly, then the lips—the shy sweet kiss of first love.
