Swept away on the tide of Ed’s passionate words, she seemed to be without thought or comprehension. When she could speak, she found herself saying almost without her own volition, “Don’t, Ed, don’t touch me. You’ve no right. You’ve no right.” She was trying to button the high neck of her dress, pushing Ed’s protesting hand away, twisting up the red-brown curls of her hair. Ed’s laughter disconcerted and frightened her. He seemed so very sure of himself,—and of her.

It was sundown when they reached the Mackenzie cabin. For a long time they stood in front of it, talking. Ed’s flushed face bent to Abbie’s.

“I think so, Ed, . . . but I’m not sure. It’s sudden and, . . . when you come in the spring I’ll know my own mind.”

“You’re playing with me. You are a coquette.”

“No, Ed, . . . I’m really uncertain.”

“Uncertain about marrying me?” Ed’s opinion of himself was not what one would term feeble. “Uncertain about going to New York, . . . with that voice? . . .”

“Oh, Ed, if I went, . . .” Abbie was suddenly childish, wistful, “would I be a lovely lady?”

Ed Matthews’ banter and his high-handedness were stilled, his passion and his ardor quieted. He bent and kissed Abbie’s pretty tapering hand. “You would be a lovely lady,” he said gently.

When he had gone, Mary and Mother Mackenzie drew Abbie in to tell them what it was all about.

Importuned to secrecy, Mary was excited beyond the completion of sentences. “Abbie . . . you . . . Doctor Ed Matthews . . . to go to New York . . . your voice . . . teachers in New York . . . it might be in the opera . . .”

Mother Mackenzie asked gravely, “Do you love him, acushla?”

Abbie turned burning cheeks to her Irish mother and clutched her plump shoulders. “I don’t know. Tell me, mother, what is love?”

“That,” said Maggie O’Conner Mackenzie, “I canna tell ye. An’ no one can tell ye. Sure, an’ I mind an’ I knew it though, mysel’. I look for you to know it, yoursel’, Abbie.”

Abbie went up to her loft room. She wanted to be alone. Love? Was this love? To be able to go to New York and study? Her voice . . . a new world . . . the world of courtly men and lovely ladies . . . of silken shawls . . . of strings of pearls . . . of flowing plumes. But that world also held Ed Matthews with his eyes that were not quite steady, with his disconcerting laugh and the vague, unproven rumors. But he loved her, that was certain. Or . . . was it so certain? His kisses . . . Abbie’s face burned with the memory. She thought of Will Deal and the day he had left for war two years before. Will had kissed her, too—