The Angel awaited his answer
a second, and when none came, she dropped her crimsoning face beside him
on the pillow and whispered in his ear:
"Freckles, I--I'm trying to make love to you. Oh, can't you help me only
a little bit? It's awful hard all alone! I don't know how, when I really
mean it, but Freckles, I love you. I must have you, and now I guess--I
guess maybe I'd better kiss you next."
She lifted her shamed face and bravely laid her feverish, quivering lips
on his. Her breath, like clover-bloom, was in his nostrils, and her hair
touched his face. Then she looked into his eyes with reproach.
"Freckles," she panted, "Freckles! I didn't think it was in you to be
mean!"
"Mean, Angel! Mean to you?" gasped Freckles.
"Yes," said the Angel. "Downright mean. When I kiss you, if you had any
mercy at all you'd kiss back, just a little bit."
Freckles' sinewy fist knotted into the coverlet. His chin pointed
ceilingward while his head rocked on the pillow.
"Oh, Jesus!" burst from him in agony. "You ain't the only one that was
crucified!"
The Angel caught Freckles' hand and carried it to her breast.
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