"I don't doubt it," said his friend, smiling. "I know you of old. 'Sputter Greek,' indeed! My Cherry, who has such a specially fine accent. I think she is very good to go with you at all."
"Cherry never thinks of herself, sir," said Magnus. "If you ask her this minute, she will tell you she has thought only of me, ever since I came in."
A quick, assenting colour leaped into the pale cheeks for a moment, as Cherry tied on her hat, but she said nothing; and Mr. Erskine was too well used to the chaffing between the two to do more than laugh at it.
So they went out into the perfect June day, slowly along amid hedgerows and flowers, bees, butterflies, and birds, to the edge of the shadowy woodland. For some reason of his own, Magnus had put on the grey that morning, and now as they went on, Cherry could not but notice and admire the free, regular step, and the easy exactness of the tall shadow that kept pace with her own. But he said nothing, nor did she, and once, glancing up at him from under her hat, she noted the deep quiet of his face—very, very grave, yet with a fine, clear steadfastness that seemed to herald victory from henceforth. A man's face now, a boy's no longer.
Absorbed as he appeared to be, Magnus must have been also watching her, for he caught the look.
"Yes?" he said. "What were you going to ask? Sit down, Cerise; here is a good place for you."
But he did not put himself at her feet, as yesterday, nor even close at her side, but on a grey rock a little way off; then threw his cap down on the grass, and sat watching her anxiously.
"What is it?" he said again. "Speak out all that is in your dear heart. You could not offend me, and hurts from you will only do me good."
Probably the "all" in Cherry's heart was a good deal, just then; for at first she could bring nothing out.
"I am not sure that I was going to say anything," she answered with effort.