"Oh, how you will love her!" he said, looking fondly at the Kitty of his imagination.
"From your tenderest years she sedulously inculcated in you earnest principles and pious practices, did she not?" murmured the Kitty of reality, with what was almost a moan.
"She did indeed," cried the youth.
Mistress Kitty closed her eyes and let her head droop upon his shoulder.
"I fear I am going to have the vapours," said she.
"'Tis, maybe, the spring heats," said he, and made as if he would rise.
"Maybe," said Mistress Kitty, becoming so limp all at once that he was forced to tighten his clasp. He glanced at her now in some alarm. She half opened bright eyes, and glimmered a languid little smile at him.
"At least," thought the widow, "if we must part (and part we must, my Calf and I) we shall part on a sweet moment. What—in a bower, every scent, every secret bird and leaf and sunbeam of which calls on thought of love, and I by his side—he to prate of his mother! An at least he does not bleat of my beauty again, my name is not Kitty!"
She sighed and closed her eyes. The delicate face lay but a span from his lips.
"I fear indeed you are faint," said he with solicitude. "My mother has a sovereign cordial against such weakness."