It was his turn to carry Celie again, and in spite of her protest
that she was still good for another run he resumed their pursuit
of the stranger with her in his arms. By her quick breathing and
the bit of tenseness that had gathered about her mouth he knew
that the exertion she had already been put to was having its
effect on her. For her little feet and slender body the big
moccasins and cumbersome fur garments she wore were a burden in
themselves, even at a walk. He found that by holding her higher in
his arms, with her own arms encircling his shoulders, it was
easier to run with her at the pace he had set for himself. And
when he held her in this way her hair covered his breast and
shoulders so that now and then his face was smothered in the
velvety sweetness of it. The caress of it and the thrill of her
arms about him spurred him on. Once he made three hundred yards.
But he was gulping for breath when he stopped. That time Celie
compelled him to let her run a little farther, and when they
paused she was swaying on her feet, and panting. He carried her
only a hundred and fifty yards in the interval after that. Both
realized what it meant. The pace was telling on them. The strain
of it was in Celie's eyes. The flower-like flush of her first
exertion was gone from her face. It was pale and a little haggard,
and in Philip's face she saw the beginning of the things which she
did not realize was betraying itself so plainly in her own. She
put her hands up to his cheeks, and smiled. It was tremendous--
that moment;--her courage, her splendid pride in him, her manner
of telling him that she was not afraid as her little hands lay
against his face. For the first time he gave way to his desire to
hold her close to him, and kiss the sweet mouth she held up to his
as her head nestled on his breast.