There was a wild rose in the bosom of her dress that she had plucked as they came through the lane. She bent her head to it and put her hands to it in the action of one that seeks to cover lack of words by some occupation. She drew the flower from her breast and placed it in his coat, pinning it there.
"That's right," he smiled. "I'll keep that to remember you by. What did you think I was going to say? You seemed as though you expected something—then as if you were disappointed. What was it?"
She was very careful in settling the flower. Then she dropped her hands and looked up at him. "I asked nothing," she said. "How should I be disappointed?"
"Asked! No! I saw it in your eyes."
She answered swiftly, almost as one speaking in menace of offending words: "What in mine eyes?"
"Why, what I tell you. As though you expected something and were disappointed."
"No more?" she inquired, and repeated it—"No more?"
"No more—no. But I want to know why—or what?"
She gave a gentle laugh and relaxed her attitude that had been strained, in keeping with her voice. She seemed to have feared he had derived some secret that she had; and she seemed glad and yet a little sad her eyes had not betrayed her. She gave a gentle laugh and threw her hands apart as if to show how small a thing was here.
"Why, little master, there is nothing in that," she said. "The eyes light for that the heart runneth to peep through them as a child to the window."