"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.
"When?" There is a startled sound in her voice, as if she was amazed that love had a beginning.