"Now then, listen to me, Angel," said the young man, impressively, "I believe you've been running about in the sun, and have got a touch of fever, and besides, you take things too much to heart."
"No I don't," she answered passionately, "everyone says I have no heart—and no one cares for me."
"That's bosh," he protested, "your mother cares—and so do I." Here he stooped, and dried her tears with his own handkerchief.
"Do you really, cousin Phil?" suddenly seizing his hand with her hot nervous fingers. "Really—not make-believe?"
"I never make-believe—really."
"Then—I am—glad," and now the elf clasped his arm, and looked up at him fixedly, "for I do love you, as much as mother, yes, and more than the whole big world."
"That's a large order, my child," stroking her cheek. "You have not seen the world yet—you won't repeat that in ten years' time. And now I must be off, or I shall be late. Look here," speaking from the saddle, "I'll come over to-morrow, and ask your mother if I may take you for a drive. How will that be, eh?"
"Not," clapping her hands ecstatically, "with Sally Lunn!"
"Why not with Sally, and for a good ten mile spin into the country beyond the railway."
"Oh, how splendid. And it's moonlight, too. I shan't sleep one wink for thinking of to-morrow."