‘Sunsets and moonsets, and the Holt firs best of all.’
‘Yes, I know better now what you meant by owing all to Miss Charlecote,’ he said, smiling. ‘I owe something to her, too.’
‘Oh, is she going to help you on?’ cried Phœbe.
‘No, I do not need that. What I owe to her is—knowing you.’
It had come, then! The first moment of full assurance of what had gleamed before; and yet the shock, sweet as it was, was almost pain, and Phœbe’s heart beat fast, and her downcast look betrayed that the full force of his words—and still more, of his tone—had reached her.
‘May I go on?’ he said. ‘May I dare to tell you what you are to me? I knew, from the moment we met, that you were what I had dreamt of—different, but better.’
‘I am sure I knew that you were!’ escaped from Phœbe, softly, but making her face burn, as at what she had not meant to say.
‘Then you can bear with me? You do not forbid me to hope.’
‘Oh! I am a great deal too happy!’
There came a great wailing, driving gust of storm at that moment, as if it wanted to sweep them off their feet, but it was a welcome blast, for it was the occasion of a strong arm being flung round Phœbe, to restrain that fluttering cloak. ‘Storms shall only blow us nearer together, dearest,’ he said, with recovered breath, as, with no unwilling hand, she clung to his arm for help.