"But you must go," said she at last. "Indeed you must. I have things to do, if you have nothing."
"I'm the idlest man in the world at the present moment. If you turn me out I can only go and sit at the inn."
"Then you must go and sit at the inn. If you stay any longer mamma won't have any dinner."
"If that's so, of course I'll go. But I shall come back to tea."
As Rachel gave no positive refusal to this proposition, Rowan took his departure on the understanding that he might return.
"Good-bye," said he. "When I come this evening I shall expect you to walk with me."
"Oh, I don't know," said she.
"Yes, you will; and we will see the sun set again, and you will not run from me this evening as though I were an ogre." As he spoke he took her in his arms and held her, and kissed her before she had time to escape from him. "You're mine altogether now," said he, "and nothing can sever us. God bless you, Rachel!"
"Good-bye, Luke," and then they parted.
She had told him to go, alleging her household duties as her ground for dismissing him; but when he was gone she did not at once betake herself to her work. She sat on the seat which he had shared with her, thinking of the thing which she had done. She was now betrothed to this man as his wife, the only man towards whom her fancy had ever turned with the slightest preference. So far love for her had run very smoothly. From her first meetings with him, on those evenings in which she had hardly spoken to him, his form had filled her eye, and his words had filled her mind. She had learned to love to see him before she understood what her heart was doing for her. Gradually, but very quickly, all her vacant thoughts had been given to him, and he had become the hero of her life. Now, almost before she had had time to question herself on the matter, he was her affianced husband. It had all been so quick and so very gracious that she seemed to tremble at her own good fortune. There was that one little cloud in the sky,—that frown on his mother's brow; but now, in the first glow of her happiness, she could not bring herself to believe that this cloud would bring a storm. So she sat there dreaming of her happiness, and longing for her mother's return that she might tell it all;—that it might be talked of hour after hour, and that Luke's merits might receive their fitting mention. Her mother was not a woman who on such an occasion would stint the measure of her praise, or refuse her child the happiness of her sympathy.