He had not dreamed that in these many months with Father John she would change from "a little kid goin' on eighteen" into--A WOMAN.
He tried to recall just what he had said to her last night--that he was still an outlaw, and would always be, no matter how well he lived from this day on; and that she, now that she had Father John's protection, was very foolish to care for him, or keep her troth with him, and would be happier if she could forget what had happened at Cragg's Ridge.
"You're a WOMAN now," he said.

"A WOMAN--" he had emphasized that--"and you don't need me any more." And she had looked at him, without speaking, as if reading what was inside him; and then, with a sudden little laugh, she swiftly pulled her hair down about her shoulders, and repeated the very words she had said to him a long time ago--"Without you--I'd want to die--Mister--Jolly Roger," and with that she turned and ran into the cabin, her hair flying riotously, and he had not seen her again since that moment.
Since then his heart had behaved like a thing with the fever, and it was beating swiftly now as he looked at his watch and noted the quick passing of time.
Back in the cabin Peter was sniffing at the crack under Nada's door, and listening to her movement.

For a long time he had heard her, but not once had she opened the door.

And he wondered, after that, why Oosimisk and her husband and Father John piled evergreens all about, until the cabin looked like the little jackpine trysting-place down at Cragg's Ridge, even to the soft carpet of grass on the floor, and flowers scattered all about.
Hopeless of understanding what it meant, he went outside, and waited in the warm May-day sun until his master came back through the clearing.
What happened after that puzzled him greatly.

When he followed Jolly Roger into the cabin Mistoos and the Leaf Bud were seated in chairs, their hands folded, and Father John stood behind a small table on which lay an open book, and he was looking at his watch when they came in.