She asked me the other day whom I thought the handsomest man in the neighbourhood, and I'm sure she expected me to say Mr.Mullen." She dimpled, and his arm went out impulsively toward her.
"But you didn't, Molly ?" he returned.
"Why, of course not--did you imagine that I should?
I said I thought Mr.
Jonathan Gay was the best looking." His arm fell to his side, and for a minute or two he walked on in silence.
"I wish I didn't love you, Molly," he burst out at last.

"I sometimes almost believe that you're one of the temptresses Mr.Mullen preached against this morning.

I've tried again and again to tear you out of my heart, but it is useless." "Yes, it's useless, Abel," she answered, melting to dimples.
"I tell myself," he went on passionately, "that you're not worth it--that you're perfectly heartless--that you're only a flirt--that other men have held your hands, kissed your lips even---" "And after telling yourself those dreadful truths, what happens ?" she inquired with interest.
"What happens?
Well, I go to work and don't think of you for at least three hours.

Then, when I am dead tired I stop for a minute to rest, and as soon as my eyes fall on a bit of green grass, or a flower growing by the road, or the blue sky, there you are again, popping in between them with your big eyes and your mouth that was made for kisses.

I forget how heartless and light you are, and remember only the times you've crept up to me and put your hand on my arm and said, 'Abel, I'm sorry.' Most of all I remember the one time you kissed me, Molly." "Don't, Abel," she said quickly, and her voice broke and died in her throat.
As he drew close to her, she walked faster until her steps changed into a run.
"If you only knew me as I am, you wouldn't care so, Abel," she threw back at him.
"I don't believe you know yourself as you are, Molly," he answered.
"It's not you that leads men on to make love to you and then throws them over--as you have thrown me--as you will throw Mr.Mullen." His tone grew suddenly stern.