Ainslee's Magazine, February 1913 — page 86: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

76 AINSLEE’S smile. “Ah, but you do know, oh, radiant lady!” Calmly he took two’ steps backward, paused for a moment as though to listen intently; and failing to hear that for which he listened, sat himself upon the stone bench, his head against the wall, and motiened her to do likewise. Very much against her will, yet irresistibly drawn, Araminta obeyed, taking the far end. “I suppose I ought to scream for help,” she said weakly, “but, somehow, I can’t feel that it is necessary.” “Scream for help!” he exclaimed. “Oh! Don’t do that. It would kill the little young romance before it is born. Please don’t scream for help. I likes you better alone!” There was a moment of silence. “What is your name?” she asked suddenly. “Oh, timid fawn!” he replied. “You will know me no better when I says it. But if you wish, my name is Prome- theus.” , “He was a god,” Araminta said. . “Was he?” asked the visitor. “I know the name has to do with the sun; and I am a sun fellow, and no mis- take!” “T love the sun, too,” said Araminta. “Do you dance in it?” asked Prome- theus. “Dance—why, no! Why should I?” “So that it may caress you!” he ex- claimed. “See, like this! You turn your back and then your breast, and throw out your arms to him. I dance . often in the sun. Come, I will show ou.” He took her by the hand. “But no! But ” protested Ara- minta, but futilely. The supple strength of his hand had pulled her sharply to her feet, and un- avoidably she tripped toward him a pace or two. “Too slow, too glow!’ he cried. “You must dance faster.” And seizing her about the waist, he whirled her around in a mad measure, which landed them both, breathless, on the little space of lawn about the sun- dial. “That’s fine!” he panted. “Sit here and take breath. The grass is much better than the hard stone. Did you like it? Will you dance each day, now ?” “How dare you! Oh! My hair!” cried Araminta, with flushed cheeks, trying hard to be very angry—and fail- ing utterly. What witchery the man had! Lying at her feet, he stared up at her with laughing eyes, and put a detaining hand on hers as she lifted it to her head. “Don’t!” said he. “It looks better windblown. Don’t tidy. your hair so much, don’t tidy your life so much. Mess it up by dancing sometimes!” “It is wonderful to dance so!” said Araminta reluctantly; but, somehow, forgetting to even try being angry. “It makes you feel—glorious! I never really danced before, I think.” She broke off abruptly, for he kept looking up at her and smiling—a strange, meaningful smile, very arrest- ing and magnetic. “You are very beautiful,” he said softly. Araminta flushed again, a queer sensation tingling through her veins. But she pretended not to hear, and, turning away her head, affected to ex- amine the petunia bed. Something stirred in its scented depths. “There is that wretched little rabbit —he eats up everything!” she cried, pointing. “If only I could catch him! But I hate a trap or a gun.” “But J will catch him!” said the man, springing up and darting over to the petunias. In another moment he was back, holding the soft, little creature aloft by the ears. He sank back to his place upon the sward, and held it up for her inspection. “Mercy!” squealed Araminta. “How could you? How wonderful!” “The Romanies, my people, call them ‘ear fellows,’” he told her solemnly. “That is because of the great length of ears. See his heart beat? because he fears you. Me he fears not. Will I put him over the wall, or are you goin’ to change your mind and let him eat part of your garden?” EORNICLOOOLK< ‘hat is * (E@)