When he descended with the ferns in his hand, she said: “It was a great risk; I wish I had not wanted them.”
“It was no risk for me,” he answered.
“What can I send you in return?” she asked, as they walked forwards. “I am going home to-morrow.”
“Betty told me,” Leonard said; “please, wait one minute.”
He stepped down to the bank of the stream, washed his hands carefully in the clear water, and came back to her, holding them, dripping, at his sides.
“I am very ignorant,” he then continued,—“ignorant and rough. You are good, to want to send me something, but I want nothing. Miss Bartram, you are very good.”
He paused; but with all her tact and social experience, she did not know what to say.
“Would you do one little thing for me—not for the ferns, that was nothing—no more than you do, without thinking, for all your friends?”
“Oh, surely!” she said.
“Might I—might I—now,—there'll be no chance tomorrow,—shake hands with you?”