The grasses curtseyed and the river ran. He took her hand from her face. Nancy looked at him, and the tears brimmed over.
"Then," she said brokenly, "it would not be the Blue Rose any more."
"True," he said.
"Then it would be a common, everyday, pink-faced flower like every other."
"True," he said again.
She withdrew her hand from his. Then his hand remained on his knee in the sunshine, a large brown hand, strong, but lonely.
"Oh, dear Unknown!" said Nancy; and she bent forward and kissed the lonely hand. "Do not let us throw our blue dream-rose away!"
"Very well," he said—"very well, dear little Miss Brown." And he kissed her forehead for the second time.
That evening he went back to his mines.