My heart leaped to this as a speckled trout snaps at a fly. Nothing so near a proposal had ever reached me before. But a New England woman is modest; she does not snatch at the first offer—far from it. I pretended not to understand the badly hidden meaning of his metaphor. A little art of this kind is feminine and excusable, even in a young girl dignified with Society membership and a mission. I felt that he could appreciate it. He did. Some people were below us on the sands. They paused to look up as this noble creature handed me down those wooden steps. The effect must have been artistical. My cloud-like skirts floated softly on the zephyrs. My scarf streamed out like a banner. I am afraid the curve of my boot might have been seen from below, for many admiring faces were turned that way, and Mr. Burke cast his eye downward in a fugitive manner.
At last we reached the sands, on which both the sun and waves were beating luminously. By a ridge of white sand he paused.
"Shall we sit here?" says he, with tender questioning.
"Anywhere," says I, with sweet feminine complacency.
Then I dropped down on the sand ridge, and sweeping my skirts together, cast a timid glance up and around.
That noble man was spreading a silk umbrella. There was a hitch in the spring, and, such was his eager impatience to occupy the seat I had so delicately suggested, that a real naughty word broke from his lips—a word I, as a missionary, never could forgive, if it hadn't been the proof of such loving impatience. As it was, like a recording angel, I blotted it out of my memory with a forgiving sigh.
That refractory umbrella was hoisted at last, and its owner placed himself on the sand beside me, holding it not seaward, but like a tent, shading us two from the whole world, while the sun took care of itself.
"This," says he, "is a sweet relief. Don't you find it so, Miss Frost?"
I answered him with a sigh, soft, but audible.
"Yes, one can draw a full breath here," says he. "I was sure you would enjoy it."