"Well, I'm an old lover; sing it to me!" Then she would not notice that he was not eating much supper.
The guitar had a blue ribbon, and she threw it over her shoulder and shook her golden hair about. Tinkle, tinkle, went the soft accompaniment. She had a sweet parlor voice, with some sad notes in it, wistful, longing notes. He wondered if she was thinking of any one miles and miles across the water.
"It is tender and beautiful," he said, "sing something else."
"You are not eating your cake."
"But I shall." He must choke down a little.
Afterward they strolled about the hill. There was no moon, but the stars were like great golden and silver globes, and the air was sweet with a hundred fragrances. Nothing had happened, and he wondered a little at it. Suddenly she said:
"Oh, you must go to bed after such a hard day's work. And I am cruel dragging you about."
He could not tell her. Oh, what if he should never need to tell her! How could he give her up? Was life all sacrifice?
Something odd had happened to her. She sat by the window living it over. She had gone around by Folsom House to see Mrs. Westbury, thinking how she should miss her when they went back to England. She ran up to her room. There was a thin lace drapery in the doorway to bring a breeze through and yet shield the occupant from the passer-by.
"Oh, you sweet little darling! Did you dream that I was wishing for you? I've been just crazy to see you all day."