"Do you mean," and Bob's voice was tremulous, "that you cared for me all the time, although you--you didn't like my plans for my future?

That you preferred me to Trevanion? Oh, Nancy!"

"As though a girl must care for six feet of flesh without brains because she isn't a blue-stocking. Why--why--couldn't you see, Bob?"

"And I say--oh, Nancy, does this mean that you care for me--love me?"

"I'm afraid I do," she half-laughed, half-sobbed.

"Afraid?"

"Yes, don't you see? You are not in the least like the man I wanted to love. You could have won your blue as a cricketer, but you wouldn't take the trouble to get it. A man in Oxford told me that you could be the best three-quarter in the 'Varsity Rugby team, but that you were too lazy to play. You've been a sort of negative creature, while I love a man of action. What are old shrivelled ma.n.u.scripts worth to the world to-day? Who cares about the sayings of some old dead and forgotten German, or some obscure pa.s.sages in _Bede's Ecclesiastical History_, when there's a great surging life all around us to-day?

History is only a record of what took place in the past; I love the thought of a man who wants to make history, who sets his ideas to action. And you, Bob, you have told me again and again that you want to spend your life in historical research, or some such useless thing."

"But--but, Nancy, what does all that matter when I love you--love you with all my life? Besides----"

"I come of a race of fighters," cried the girl. "When Philip of Spain sent over his Great Armada, to rob us of our liberty, one of my ancestors fought the Dons. He gave ships and men to our country, and helped to save us from oppression. When Napoleon cast a shadow over Europe, and threatened to destroy our country, men of my name were among the foremost in fighting him. My grandfather represented St. Ia in Parliament, and he roused the country. While you--oh, Bob, forgive me, but your ideal seems to be to sit in a library in Oxford, wearing a dirty old dressing-gown and iron-rimmed spectacles, reading or writing books which will be of no use to any one! Is that a life for a man?"

"But if his mind is cast in that mould?"

"I haven't finished yet," went on the girl. "Forgive me, Bob, for talking so much. I wouldn't only--oh, Bob, can't you see? Why, at our last dance--when--when I had kept four for you, you never even asked for them. And I--I wanted to dance them too; but--but I had to sit them out, and when other men begged me to let them put their names down on my card, I said I was tired. Then, when I heard afterwards that you had gone into the library, and were reading some old book which hadn't been opened for years, I just--cried."

"Oh, Nancy, I never dreamt of such a thing! I--I never thought you wanted me. I was just aching for you all the time, but I thought--why, you've always laughed at my dancing. But there, now I know, I can do anything, be anything. And there's nothing I won't do for you?"

"You are not vexed with me, are you?"

"I couldn't be vexed with you, Nancy. I'd let myself be cut in bits for you. And you love me, don't you? Oh, it's too good to be true!

but say you do, tell me that in spite of everything you love me?"

"Haven't I been telling you so all the time? And--and yet you haven't asked me to--to----"

"What, Nancy?"

"Oh, I do hate a coward!"

"But what haven't I asked you?"

"Bob, isn't there something you want very much?"

"Yes, there is," replied Bob. "Something--that---- Nancy, you won't be vexed with me if I ask you?"

"Risk my being vexed," laughed the girl.

"Then I want to take you in my arms, and kiss you--kiss you a hundred times."

"Then, why don't you?"

Bob looked around him, like one afraid. They were beneath the shadow of a great rock. At their feet was headland gra.s.s, wind-swept and grey, but peeping through the gra.s.s were thousands upon thousands of wild thyme, giving the little plateau a purple hue. They were hidden from the gaze of any who might be on the great rock. His heart beat so that his breath came with difficulty; he was trembling with a new-found joy--a joy so great that it almost gave him pain.

"Oh, my love!--my love!" he cried, as he took her in his arms, and his kisses were as pure as those with which a young mother la.s.ses her firstborn.

"What haven't I asked you?" he said, a few minutes later.

They were sitting beneath the shadow of the rock now, and Nancy was rearranging her hat. She did not reply, but her eyes were full of gladsome mischief as she looked at him.

"I mean just now, when--when you said you had been telling me that you loved me, but I hadn't asked for something. What was it?"

"You've made up for it since," and there was a laugh in her voice.

"Do you mean that you wanted me to kiss you? Oh, you are right, Nancy, I am an awful coward, but I'll make up for lost time now."

The sea continued to roll on the great rugged rock, which threw its mighty head far out into its depths. Overhead the sea-birds hovered, sailing with graceful motion over the silvery waters, and uttering their mournful cry, while far out vessels ploughed their way up and down the Atlantic; but neither noticed. They were happy in each other's love. Nancy had forgotten the fact that Robert Nancarrow was not the kind of man she had meant to love, while he was far too happy to care for the lecture she had given him. Her kisses were warm upon his lips, her words of love rung in his ears. They were in the dreamland of happy lovers, while the sky of their lives was as free from clouds as the great dome of blue overhead. He was the only man she had ever loved, or ever could love, while to him the maid, wilful and pa.s.sionate though she might be, was perfect. What were books, learning, and the fame of scholarship to him now? He had won the love of the girl whom for years he had loved, and ever despaired of winning.

She, who had seemed so far away from him, so far above him, had come to his arms, willingly, gladly. She, with her proud old name, and almost lordly wealth, had chosen him, and forgotten everything in her choice.

It seemed too wonderful to be true, and he looked at her again and again in his wonder, proud beyond all words, yet almost afraid to believe in his good fortune.

"Oh, Nancy, you are beautiful!"

The light of joy flashed from her eyes. What girl is there beneath the all-beholding heavens who does not long to know that the man she loves thinks her beautiful?--Who does not long for him to tell her?

"And what a lovely dress you are wearing."

"I've worn it three times since you came down from Oxford, and you've never once mentioned it."

"I never saw it as I see it now. I never saw as I see you now. Nancy, there's no one like. Bless you, my love, for loving me."

But I must not dwell on that happy hour, much as I would love to. We who are older may laugh at "Love's young dream," and grow cynical about its transitory nature. We may say that lovers live in a fool's paradise, and that the dream of lovers ends in the tragedies of later years. Still, there's nothing sweeter or purer on G.o.d's green earth than the love of a clean-minded honest lad for the maid he has chosen from all others. It keeps the world young and hopeful; humanly speaking, it is life's greatest joy, and the man who can throw scorn upon its joys and utter cynical words about its reality has himself lost the pearl of great price. It is he who is to be pitied, and not the lovers. They hear the birds of paradise singing in the bowers of Eden, while he hears only the croaking of the raven.

They got back to realities presently. Bob's new-found joy had led him to the realisation of the future.

"I'm going to speak to your father to-night, Nancy. I know he'll be angry, but that I don't mind a bit."

"No, Bob, you must not speak to him--at least not yet."

"Why?"

"Because he'll refuse, and you mustn't speak to him until you can make him consent."

"I don't understand, Nancy."

"You see, he has exactly the same feeling that I have about men. He would never consent to my being the wife of a book-worm."

"Oh, I've thought that all out while I've been here," replied Bob confidently. "Yes, I know I've been unpractical--a dreamer, in fact.

But I'm going to alter all that. Now you've told me--that--that you love me, I feel I must become a man of action. You've wakened something in me that I didn't know existed. I haven't been half alive.

I've imagined that only thoughts, ideas mattered; now I know differently. I've lived only half-life. Mark you, I don't altogether go back upon my faith--I only add a new element to it. I've always said that we owe everything to thought. I've said that thoughts covered the seas with floating cities, and converted the world into a whispering-gallery. That thoughts have belted the globe with electric currents, and given us untold blessings. Now I know that I've stated only half a truth. The man who is simply a man of ideas, is like a bird trying to fly with one wing. There must be action to put the ideas into use. Oh, yes, I see it all."

"Yes, yes, Bob; and what are you going to do?"