Her dress, its harmony with her delicateness of feature and coloring, the gliding motion of her form combined to throw him instantly into a state of intoxication.

He rushed toward her; she halted, shivered, shrank.

"Don't--look at me like that!" she exclaimed half under her breath.
"And why not?
Aren't you mine ?" And he seized her, enwrapped her in his arms, pressed his lips firmly upon her hair, her cheek--upon her lips.
There he lingered; her eyes closed, her form, he felt, was yielding within his embrace as though she were about to faint.
"Don't--please," she murmured, when he let her catch her breath.
"I--I--can't bear it." "Do you love me ?" he cried passionately.
"Let me go!" She struggled futilely in his plowman arms.
"Say you love me!" "If you don't let me go I shall hate you!" "I see I shall have to kiss you until you do love me." "Yes--yes--whatever you wish me to say," she cried, suddenly freeing herself by dodging most undignifiedly out of his arms.
She stood a little way from him, panting, as was he.

She frowned fiercely, then her eyes softened, became tender--just why she could not have explained.

"What a dirty boy it is!" she said softly.