"Yes; and I saw you kissing those ladies goodby, too. Was one of
them your wife, or were they all your sisters? I have wondered."

"They--they were--cousins," he informed her, confusedly,
recalling an incident that had been forgotten. He had kissed
Mary Lyons and Edna Burrage--but their brothers were present. "A
foolish habit, isn't it?"

"I do not know. I have no grown cousins," she replied, demurely.
"You Americans have such funny customs, though. Where I live, no
gentleman would think of pressing a lady's hand until it pained
her. Is it necessary?" In the question there was a quiet
dignity, half submerged in scorn, so pointed, so unmistakable
that he flushed, turned cold with mortification, and hastily
removed the amorous fingers.

"I crave your pardon. It is such a strain to hold myself and you
against the rolling of this wagon that I unconsciously gripped
your hand harder than I knew. You--you will not misunderstand my
motive?" he begged, fearful lest he had offended her by his
ruthlessness.

"I could not misunderstand something that does not exist," she
said, simply, proudly.

"By Jove, she's beyond comparison!" he thought.

"You have explained, and I am sorry I spoke as I did. I shall
not again forget how much I owe you."