"Oh, yes. I would be nothing without that. But that, you know, is your delight,—or should be. The other is mine. And yet it is a delight to love you; to know that I may love you."
"You mean that this is the realization of your romance."
"Yes; but it must not be the end of it, Adolphus. You must like the soft twilight, and the long evenings when we shall be alone; and you must read to me the books I love, and you must not teach me to think that the world is hard, and dry, and cruel,—not yet. I tell Bell so very often; but you must not say so to me."
"It shall not be dry and cruel, if I can prevent it."
"You understand what I mean, dearest. I will not think it dry and cruel, even though sorrow should come upon us, if you— I think you know what I mean."
"If I am good to you."
"I am not afraid of that;—I am not the least afraid of that. You do not think that I could ever distrust you? But you must not be ashamed to look at the moonlight, and to read poetry, and to—"
"To talk nonsense, you mean."
But as he said it, he pressed her closer to his side, and his tone was pleasant to her.
"I suppose I'm talking nonsense now?" she said, pouting. "You liked me better when I was talking about the pigs; didn't you?"