And Peter, sitting on his haunches in a patch of violets, watched them both, wondering what was going to happen between these two.
"Where are you going ?" Jolly Roger asked.
Nada's fingers had crept almost to his shoulder.

They were twisting at his flannel shirt nervously, but not for the tenth part of a second did she drop her eyes, and that strange, wonderful something which he saw looking at him so clearly out of her soul brought the truth to Jolly Roger, before she had spoken.
"I'm goin' with you and Peter." The low cry that came from Jolly Roger was almost a sob as he stepped back from her.

He looked away from her--at Peter.

But her pale face, her parted red lips, her wide-open, wonderful eyes, her radiant hair stirred by the wind--came between them.

She was no longer the little girl--"past seventeen, goin' on eighteen." To Jolly Roger she was all that the world held of glorious womanhood.
"But--you can't!" he cried desperately.