IT was in the latter part of June, and the day was so perfect that it seemed like wanton waste to use the hours for study or work. The roses, which were always plentiful in the Fisher garden, had probably passed their prime, but their perfume was still in the air, and there were enough lingering buds on the thorny stalks to tempt Polly into their midst. She had gathered quite a bouquet, and was turning toward the house when she heard her name called. Blushing delightfully, she stopped.
Young Unwin was leaning over the wall that separated the two gardens.
“Polly, Polly!” he called. “Come here, dear, I have something of real importance to say to you.”
His tone was graver than usual, and her gay spirits were dashed, yet the dimples remained in her cheeks and the saucy gleam in her eye, as drawing near, she paused, with a mock curtsey, just out of his arm’s reach on her side of the wall.
“Well, what is it, Mr. Persistency?” said she, a delicious smile robbing her words of any sting they might otherwise have contained. “This is the third time to-day you have summoned me to this wall.”
“Once to give you a rare flower, which had just opened in the conservatory. Once to see if you appreciated this lovely day, and once,—O Polly, my father is anything but well to-day.”
Her face, which had been brimming with mirth sobered instantly.
“Is he going to die?” she inquired, with alarm.
“I fear so, dear, and so it becomes our duty to tell him our wishes and expectations. Are you willing to go with me to his bedside? We should love each other more dearly for his blessing.”
“Do you think”—the words came with difficulty,—“that he will give us his blessing?”