"You never loved flowers! Oh, Jacob, how can you say so?"
"Not that kind, at any rate, ma'am," answered Jacob, almost vehemently, pointing down with his finger. "The last time I came this way, a snake was creeping round among those very flowers. That snake left poison on everything it touched, at least in this valley."
The lady gazed on his excited face a moment very earnestly. Then the broad, white lids drooped over her eyes, and she only answered with a profound sigh.
The look of humble repentance that fell upon Jacob's face was painful to behold. He stood uneasily upon his feet, gazing down upon the tuft of flowers his passion had trampled to the earth. His large hands, with their loosely knit joints, became nervously restless, and he cast furtive glances at the face and downcast features of the lady. He could not speak, but waited for her to address him again, in his heart of hearts sorry for the painful thoughts his words had aroused. At length he ventured to speak, and the humble, deprecating tones of his voice were almost painful to hear.
"The dews are falling, ma'am, and you are not used to sitting in the damp."
"There was a time," said the lady, "when a little night dew would not drive me in doors."
"But now you are tired and hungry."
"No, Jacob, I can neither taste food nor take rest till we have been yonder—perhaps not then, for Heaven only knows what tidings may reach us. Go in and get some supper for yourself, my good friend."
Jacob shook his head.