"I think I never told you the name of my little girl? I will tell it you when you keep your promise to me—when we stand face to face in the place where I saw you first."
Ay! I see the scene clearly enough, the two figures, the shamed confession, the truth uttered as before God, the cart before the horse—the amazement of the man, who, with all his faults, was never vain or coxcomb. But that hour shall never come to either him or me.
Although I have asked you so many questions," he says, "you have never asked me one about my sweetheart. Why do you not?"
"How tall is she?" I ask, looking up at the chilly leaves as they rustle softly down—down—down, like silk, to the ground. Since he wishes to talk, I will put him through a whole catechism of questions, and, by haphazard, I begin with the one that loveless Elizabeth asked of her beautiful rival Mary.
"Just as high as my heart."
"Of what colour is her hair?"
"Brown, with a warm ruddy golden tinge running through it; it is all over little billows and cunning waves and ripples—the softest, prettiest head!"
"And her eyes?"
"She has two sweet, serious, saucy, tender grey eyes; they tell a different story every minute, but they are always true to her thoughts, which are honest; her face is the mirror of her heart, which is pure."
"Is she fair?"
"She has the whitest, softest neck and throat and hands I ever saw. She looks as though she were made to be kissed and spoiled.”
"And her mouth?"
"Not very little, but the sweetest I ever saw; and she has a dimple set at each corner."
"Is she merry?"
