"Of course, you are my friend—now. Please forget that I took you for a beggar."
The words came with effort. Within the bushes the blackbird still chirped expectant, and the ripple below murmured to the bank, "The old story—the old story."
"But I am a beggar," I broke out. "Claire, I am always a beggar on my knees before you. Oh, Claire!"
Her face was yet more averted—the sun kissed her waving locks with soft lips of gold, the breeze half stirred the delicate draperies around her. The blackbird's note was broken and halting as my own speech.
"Claire, have you not guessed? will you never guess? Oh, have pity on me!"
I could see the soft bosom heaving now. The little hand was pulling at the gown. Her whole sweet shape drooped away from me in vague alarm—but still no answer came.
"Courage! Courage!" chirped the bird, and the river murmured responsive, "Courage!"
"Claire!"—and now there was a ring of agony in the voice; the tones came alien and scarcely recognised—"Claire, I have watched and waited for this day, and now that it has come, for good or for evil, answer me—I love you!"
O time-honoured and most simple of propositions! "I love you!" Night after night had I lain upon my bed rehearsing speeches, tender, passionate and florid, and lo! to this had it all come—to these three words, which, as my lips uttered them, made my heart leap in awe of their crude and naked daring.
And she? The words, as though they smote her, chased for an instant the rich blood from her cheek. For a moment the bosom heaved wildly, then the colour came slowly back, and ebbed again. A soft tremor shook the bending form, the little hand clutched the gown, but she made no answer.