“You poor thing!” concluded Dave with a swift glance to the ridge where the children had not yet appeared.

Then amazingly he enfolded the figure of the woman in his arms and upon her cold, appalled lips he imprinted a swift but accurate kiss.

“There, poor thing!” he murmured.

He lavished one look upon the still frozen Juliana, replaced the cap upon his yellow hair, once more preened his moustache at her, and turned away to meet the oncoming children.  And in his glance Juliana retained still the wit to read a gay, cherishing pity.  As he turned away she sank limply against the fence, her first sensation being all of wonder that she had not cried out at this monstrous assault.  And very clearly she knew at once that she had not cried out or made any protest because, though monstrous, it was even more absurd.  A seasoned sense of humour had not failed.

The guilty man swaggered on to meet the children, not looking back.  For him the incident was closed.  Juliana, a hand supporting her capable chin, steadily regarded his swaying shoulders and the yellow hair beneath his cap.  In her nostrils was the scent of printer’s ink and pipe tobacco.  She reflectively rubbed her chin, for it had been stung with a day-old beard that pricked like a nettle.  Now she was recalling another woodland adventure of a dozen years before here in this same forest.

Dave Cowan had been wrong when he said that no one had kissed her since her mother died.  Once on a winter’s day, when she was sixteen, she had crossed here, bundled in a red cloak and hood, and a woodchopper, a merry, laughing foreigner who spoke no English, had hailed her gayly, and she had stopped and gayly tried to understand him, and knew only that he was telling her she was beautiful.  She at least had thought it was that, and was certain of it when he had seized and kissed her, laughing joyously the while.  She had not told any one of that, but she had never forgotten.  And now this curious creature, whom she had not supposed to be gallantly inclined—­unshaven, smelling of printer’s ink and tobacco!

“I’m coming on!” said Juliana aloud, and laughed rather grimly.

She watched her prankling blade meet the children and go off down the ridge with his son, still not looking back.  She thought it queer he did not look back at her just once.  She soothed her chin again, sniffing the air.

Patricia Whipple came leaping up the path, excited with an imminent question.  She halted before the still-reflective Juliana and went at once to the root of her matter.

“Cousin Juliana, what did that funny man kiss you for?”

This time Juliana in truth did gasp.  There was no suppressing it.

“Patricia Whipple—­and did that boy see it, too?”

“No, he was too far behind me.  But I did.  I saw it.  I was looking right at you, and that funny man—­all at once he grabbed you round your waist and he—­”