Then stooped she and gathered a handful of grass, and held it aloft and
opened her hand, palm downward, that the falling blades were blown this
way and that by the wind.
"I mean," quoth she, "that Rowland Nasmyth is no more to Patience
than--I am to thee." And she laughed a little.
He came closer to her, and laid his arm about her shoulders, drawing her
to him, and he said, "Nay, thou knowest how dear thou art to me,
comrade; but thou meanest in different wise--is't so?"