"Look!" she whispered; "see how long it stays!"
"It's not meself would be blaming it for forgetting to go away," said Sandy.
They both laughed, then Ruth leaned over the boat's side and pretended to be absorbed in her reflection in the water. Sandy had
not learned that unveiled glances are improper, and if his lips refrained from echoing the vireo's song, his eyes were less discreet.
"You've got a dimple in your elbow!" he cried, with the air of one discovering a continent.
"I haven't," declared she, but the dimple turned State's evidence.
The sun had gone under a cloud as the afternoon shadows began to lengthen, and a light tenderer than sunlight and warmer than moonlight fell across the river. The water slipped over the stones behind them with a pleasant swish and swirl, and the mint that was crushed by the prow of their boat gave forth an aromatic perfume.
Ever afterward the first faint odor of mint made Sandy close his eyes in a quick desire to retain the memory it recalled, to bring back the dawn of love, the first faint flush of consciousness in the girlish cheeks and the soft red lips, and the quick, uncertain
breath as her heart tried not to catch beat with his own.
"Can't you sing something?" she asked presently. "Annette Fenton says you know all sorts of quaint old songs."