“What about you, Cissie? You say we're together—”
“Oh, I'm a woman. We haven't the chance to do as we will.”
A kind of titillation went over Peter's scalp and body.
“Then you are going to stay here and marry—Tump?” He uttered the name in a queer voice.
Tears started in Cissie's eyes; her bosom lifted to her quick breathing.
“I—I don't know what I'm going to do,” she stammered miserably.
Peter leaned over her with a drumming heart; he heard her catch her breath.
“You don't care for Tump?” he asked with a dry mouth.
She gasped out something, and the next moment Peter felt her body sink limply in his groping arms. They clung together closely, quiveringly. Three nights of vigil, each thinking miserably and wistfully of the other, had worn the nerves of both man and girl until they were ready to melt together at a touch. Her soft body clinging to his own, the little nervous pressures of her arms, her eased breathing at his neck, wiped away Siner's long sense of strain. Strength and peace seemed to pour from her being into his by a sort of spiritual osmosis. She resigned her head to his palm in order that he might lift her
