coloured spectacles—not but what that has its advantages, though, for when a man like that pays a compliment, he means it, and he has paid me one or two lovely ones. By the time my foot on the first stair, the smiles have come back to my mouth, the gladness to my heart; is not my lover waiting for me? am I not going to him now, this minute?
All along the garden and orchard go with hurrying steps. The convolvuli, hanging their marble vases over the hedge, blow out their faintly scented welcome to me as I pass; the pale bramble blossom hanging on the bough whispers, "He is waiting! he is waiting!" the brook, as it hastens along, mutters, "Time is short, do not linger!" and very soon I have reached the trysting-place, where he stands erect, impatient, watch in hand.
"How late you are!" he says; then, holding me away from him to look into my face, "Why, little one, you have been crying!"
"Yes," I say, rubbing my cheek against his hand, and feeling that now I am here it does not much matter whether I begin to cry again or laugh; by his side all is well with me.
"Who has been vexing you?” he asks, with an unamiable frown.
"No one! It is about George."
"George," he repeats, and his arms slacken their hold upon me; "why, this is the second time within the last twenty-four hours that you have been crying over Tempest! You must have liked him very much!"
"I did like him," I answer stoutly. "I do! He is the truest, noblest, most unselfish lover a girl ever had, only——— (I lift my eyes to Paul's jealous face) I like you best!"
"Do you, indeed?" he asks, with a queer upward twist of his brows. "And have you no such word in your vocabulary as love?"
"Perhaps."
"At any rate you are quite sure that you do like me?"
