They had not parted in a
manner that invited further intimacy. From twin windows of the house on
the hill lights glowed redly, as though they were Dennis Kavanagh's
baleful little eyes. Fear was not the cause of the young man's
hesitation. But he dreaded another scene in the presence of the girl.
Kavanagh and his grandfather had brutally violated an innocent
friendship. They had put into insulting words what neither he nor Clare
had dreamed of--he hastily assured himself that they were not lovers.
More than ever before he now felt infinite tenderness toward
her--compassion, sympathy--an overpowering impulse to seek her. He had
much to tell her. He could not think of any one in all the world who
would listen as she would listen. The red eyes glowering out of the
summer gloom did not daunt him; they suggested tyranny and insulting
suspicion, and he pitied her the more. He rode on past the tall cross of
the church-yard. A voice out of the silence startled him. A white figure
stood in the shadow of the church porch.
"Come here, Big Boy," she said.
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