"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.