"I'm sorry you feel so bad," he whispered, panting.
"It isn't anything," returned Rose, but she half sobbed again; the boy's round cheek pressed against her wet, burning one.

He was several years younger than she.

She had half scorned him, but she had one of those natures that crave love for its own sweetness as palates crave sugar.
She wept a little on his shoulder; and the boy, half beside himself with joy and terror, stood holding her fast in his arms.
"Don't feel bad," he kept whispering.

Finally Rose raised herself.

"I must go in," she whispered; "good-night." The boy's pleading face, his innocent, passionate lips approached hers, and they kissed each other.
"Don't you--like me a little ?" gasped the boy.
"Maybe I will," Rose whispered back.