A new light had come into her eyes, and they were shining like stars.

There was a flush in her cheeks, her red lips were parted, and Peter, looking up--and being just dog--could scarcely measure the beauty of her.

But he knew that something had happened, and he tried hard to understand.
"Peter, he was here ag'in today--Mister Roger--Mister Jolly Roger," she cried softly, the pink in her cheeks growing brighter.

"And he told me I was pretty!" She drew a deep breath, and looked out over the rocks to the valley and the black forest beyond.

And her fingers, under Peter's scrawny armpits, tightened until he grunted.
"And he asked me if he could touch my hair--mind you he asked me that, Peter!--And when I said 'yes' he just put his hand on it, as if he was afraid, and he said it was beautiful, and that I must take wonderful care of it!" Peter saw a throbbing in her throat.
"Peter--he said he didn't want to do anything wrong to me, that he'd cut off his hand first.