pursued Missy, squealing and skipping from stone to stone till,
unexpectedly, she lost her slippery footing and went sprawling into the
shallow stream.

"Oh, Missy! I'm sorry!" She felt his arms tugging at her. Then she
found herself standing on the bank, red-faced and dripping, feeling
very wretched and very happy at the same time--wretched because Raymond
should see her in such plight; happy because he was making such a fuss
over her notwithstanding.

He didn't seem to mind her appearance, but took his hat and began
energetically to fan her draggled hair.

"I wish my hair was curly like Kitty Allen's," she said.

"I like it this way," said Raymond, unplaiting the long braids so as to
fan them better.

"But hers curls up all the prettier when it's wet. Mine strings."

"Straight hair's the nicest," he said with finality.

He liked straight hair best! A wave of celestial bliss stole over her.
It was wonderful: the big, fleecy clouds so serenely beautiful up in
the enigmatic blue; the sun pouring warmly down and drying her dress
in uneven patches; the whisperings of the green-jewelled leaves and the
swishing of the diamond-bubbles on the stones; the drowsy, mysterious
sounds from far away in the woods, and fragrance everywhere; and
everything seeming delightfully remote; even the other boys and
girls--everything and everybody save Raymond, standing there so
patiently fanning the straight hair he admired.

Oh, the whole place was entrancing, entrancing in a new way; and her
sensations, too, were entrancing in a new way. Even when Raymond, as he
manipulated her hair, inadvertently pulled the roots, the prickly pains
seemed to tingle on down through her being in little tremors of pure
ecstasy.

Raymond went on fanning her hair.

"Curly hair's messy looking," he observed after a considerable pause
during which, evidently, his thoughts had remained centred on this
pleasing theme.

And then, all of a sudden, Missy found herself saying an inexplicable,
unheard-of thing:

"You can have a lock-if you want to."

She glanced up, and then quickly down. And she felt herself blushing
again; she didn't exactly like to blush--yet--yet--

"Do I want it?"

Already Raymond had dropped his improvised fan and was fumbling for his
knife.

"Where?" he asked.

Missy shivered deliciously at the imminence of that bright steel
blade; what if he should let it slip?--but, just then, even mutilation,
provided it be at Raymond'