But Nan still hesitated. She was caught by sudden panic. She felt
that she couldn't let Peter--Peter, of all men in the world--carry her
in his arms!

"It isn't so deep higher up, is it?" she suggested. "I could wade
there."

"No, it's not so deep, but the river bed is very stony. You'd cut your
feet to pieces."

"Then I suppose you'll have to carry me," she agreed at last, with
obvious reluctance.

"I promise I won't drop you," he assured her quietly.

He gathered her up into his arms, and as he lifted her the rough tweed
of his coat brushed her cheek. Then, holding her very carefully, he
stepped down from the bank into the stream and began to make his way
across.

Nan had no fear that he might let her fall. The arms that held her
felt pliant and strong as steel, and their clasp about her filled her
with a strange, new ecstasy that thrilled her from head to foot. It
frightened her.

"Am I awfully heavy?" she asked, nervously anxious to introduce some
element of commonplace.

And Peter, looking down at the delicately angled face which lay against
his shoulder, drew his breath hard.

"No," he answered briefly. "You're not heavy."

There was that in his gaze which brought the warm colour into her face.
Her lids fell swiftly, veiling her eyes, and she turned her face
quickly towards his shoulder. All that remained visible was the edge
of the little turban hat she wore and, below this, a dusky sweep of
hair against her white skin.

He went on in silence, conscious in every fibre of his being of the
supple body gathered so close against his own, of the young, sweet,
clean-cut curve of her cheek, and of the warmth of her hair against his
shoulder. He jerked his head aside, his mouth set grimly, and crossed
quickly to the other bank of the river.

As he let her slip to the ground, steadying her with his arms about
her, he bent swiftly and for an instant his lips just brushed her hair.
Nan scarcely felt the touch of his kiss, it fell so lightly, but she
sensed it through every nerve of her. Standing in the twilight, shaken
and clutching wildly after her self-control, she knew that if he
touched her again or took her in his arms, she would yield
helplessly--gladly!

Peter knew it, too, knew that the merest thread of courage and
self-respect kept them apart. His arms strained at his sides. Forcing
his voice to an impersonal, level tone, he said practically:

"It's getting late. Come on, little pa