Peter stood looking down at the scattered fragments of the bridge with an odd kind of gravity in his eyes.  It seemed a piece of trenchant symbolism that the Lovers’ Bridge should break when he and Nan essayed to cross it.  There was a slight, whimsical smile, which held something of pain, on his lips when he turned to her again.

“I shall have to carry you across,” he said.

She shook her head.

“No, thanks.  You might drop me.  I can wade over.”

“It’s too deep for you to do that.  I won’t let you drop.”

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: