What a girl of sixteen cares for is hair and a high color and moonlight and a tenor voice. The flowers and turf, a wild strawberry, a rare butterfly, and suchlike little intimate things had become more interesting than mountains. She would never look squarely at these dream forms that mocked the social order in which she lived, never admit she listened to the soft whisperings in her ear. But at least it gave her more time. But I'll be more lenient, and content myself with merely chastising you, on condition—" "You may do as you please, master," interrupted Jack, thrusting his hand into his pocket, as if in search of the knife; "but I wouldn't advise you to lay hands on me again. Do you understand?’ ‘Aye, sir.
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