"They were such pudgy little boys," she says, with a laugh in which there is only a remembered mirth. "They were like some of Irving's descriptions. You wouldn't expect them to grow up into such fine-looking men, now, would you? I think Peter is almost handsome."

It gives him a little twinge. He was jealous of Peter awhile ago; but he admits bravely that Peter is very good-looking.

And here are some poor willows. Oh, the lovely shrubbery that is neglected and dying!

"After all, it _is_ the people who give the charm to places,--the loving care, the home delight. But no one could keep it up. Property gets too valuable, and taxation is too high; and there are so many poorer people who must have homes."

These sententious bits of wisdom he considers utterly charming. She has caught them from John.

Then they sit down on a great stone and rest, though she protests she is not tired. She can walk for hours.

Now he ought to tell her all that is in his heart. If the world stands thousands of years there will never be such a golden opportunity again.

She breaks off a bit of yarrow and sticks it in her belt. How beautifully the lashes droop over her eyes, deepening and softening the tint, until it looks like a glint of heaven!

"Oh, we ought to go on," she says presently; and with a dainty smile and motion, she rises. Ah, if she knew what he is wild to utter!

They turn their steps homeward. A wood-robin in a thicket sings, "Sweet, sweet, I love you, I l-o-v-e you," with a maddening, lingering cadence.

Why is he not as brave as the bird? Are there any choicer, more exquisite words in which to say it?

They come to a little stream. "Oh, just down here is Kissing Bridge,"

she says, with a kind of girlish gleefulness.

She had made her father tell the old Dutch story one evening, when they were all sitting on the stoop. And as they go on, she, with a sort of eager, heedless step, as if she was not walking on his heart, tells about Stephen, and how he jumped out of the carriage and gathered a great bunch of roses for her. They have reached the spot. The stream has shrunken. You could step over it.

"They were just there." She indicates the spot with a pretty gesture of her head. "But there are no wild-roses now;" and a soft sigh escapes her, as she turns to him, and their eyes meet.

"Are there none?" he asks, his eyes drinking in the sudden radiance. For if ever dainty, delicate, ethereal wild-roses bloomed, they are in her cheeks; and oh, what are her scarlet lips that have meant to answer, and are mysteriously tranfixed with the rarest sweetness!

He kisses her--once, a dozen times. There is no one near. They own the city,--the whole world, for love is Lord of all.

He slips her hand in his arm. Its tremble thrills every nerve in his body. He experiences the overwhelming joy of possessorship, for she _is_ his.

"My darling little Nan;" and his voice is unsteady with emotion.

He has rechristened Baby Stevie's pet name; but it has never sounded so enchanting before.

Then they walk on in delicious silence. Another bird sings in a drowsy afternoon tone,--

"Sweet, sweet, I love you, I l-o-v-e you."

They glance at each other, and both translate it. Her cheeks are redder than wild-roses now; and her dimple holds the sweetness of a great mystery. They both smile, and he kisses her again. Why not? There is no one about.

"My darling, can you guess when I first began to love you?" He wants her to know all the story. It seems as if his whole life will not be long enough to get it told and he must begin at once.

"When?" There is a startled sound in her voice, as if she was amazed that love had a beginning.

"That night in the dance,--the Spanish dance. We will go somewhere this winter and dance it over again; and the music beats will say--'I love you.'"

"Oh, so long ago?" she exclaims.

"Yes; and I have a visiting-card of yours." He hunts in his card-case.

"Here it is--'Miss Nan Underhill.' I've kissed it thousands of times. I have almost worn it out. And when I went home I told my father about the little girl in New York that I must come back and win."

"Oh, did you!" She is touched by the revelation.

"He is a delightful father. Some time I must take you over to see him, or he may come here. But he had promised that I should go to Ebberfeld; and so I did. The aunt had proposed the match."

"And your poor cousin!" Her voice is full of such infinite pity that he gives the little hand a tender pressure for thanks.

"I couldn't have loved her anyhow. She seems older than I; and I am a very boy in heart. Then she was too large. I like little women."

"I am so glad," she cries, with unaffected joy, "for I am small; and I never can grow any larger. But I don't mind now."

"So when my father found how much in earnest I was, he planned the business change. It was my own mother's money, you know. But he has been a good father to me, and I am glad he has some other children. I was to go to Paris."

That seems so magnificent she is almost conscience smitten.

Ah, how much there is to say!

"But you will get tired with all this long walk," he exclaims anxiously.

Oh, blessed thought! he will have the right to keep her rested and happy, and in a realm of joy.

"Oh, no," she returns. "Why, the walk has not seemed long." The surprise in her voice is enchanting.

Is any walk ever too long for love? Is any day too long,--even all of life?

The crickets and peeps come out; a locust drones his slow tune. The sun has dropped down. Well, they are in an enchanted country that needs no sun but that of love. And if they walked all night they could not say all that has been brought to light by the mighty touch that wakes human souls.

At home grandmother's difficult breathing has returned, and they have had a troubled hour. But now she is all right, except that she will be weaker to-morrow. Mrs. Underhill goes downstairs and bustles about the supper as a relief from the strain. She makes a slice of delicately-browned toast. Joe comes rushing in.

"I'm sorry, but the servant at the Dentons has cut her hand badly. Don't wait supper for me," he exclaims.

"Jim has not come in, and no one can tell when those children will be back. If the fair should keep open three months longer every one will be dead with fatigue. Yes, we'll wait. I am going to take some toast up to mother."

"The children!" Doctor Joe has a strange, guilty sort of feeling. What if to-night should bring her a new son, as some future night will bring her a new daughter?

Father Underhill sits on the front stoop reading his paper. He glances up now and then. When he espies a small figure in soft gray with a wide-brimmed leghorn hat, and a young man, he studies them more attentively. What is this? She has the young man's arm,--that has gone out of date for engaged people,--and her head inclines toward him. She glances up and smiles.

And then a great pang rends the father's soul. They come nearer, and she smiles to him; but, oh! there is a light in her face, a gladness shining in her eyes, a tremulous sweetness about the mouth. Did he read all this in her mother's face years and years ago? Did _her_ mother have this awful pang that seems to wrench body and soul asunder?

They say good-evening and that it has been a glorious afternoon. The young man will lose no time,--hasn't he been dangling three months already?

"Mr. Underhill, may I see you a moment?"

How brave and sweet and assured the voice is! And he helps the little girl up the steps, through the hall space, and the three stand in the parlour, where the young man prefers his request with such a daring that the elder man is almost dazed. Then the father holds out his arms as if he was grasping for something lost. She comes to them, and her head is on his breast, her hands reaching up to clasp him about the neck.

"And this little girl, too!"