"It shall be so," he answered, frankly, adoring her. "Whatever you wish shall always be, if I can bring it about."
Oh, the rash promises of lovers!
"And you will let me have my happiness to myself, then? You will not think me foolish?"
"Not all to yourself, for, though I do not speak, I must still share it, and I think you are perfect in everything."
"We are at the wharf," she murmured. "I must go up to the house alone. Do not come with me. I want to think it over."
"But, dearest, I shall see you to-night?" he pleaded.
"Yes; but please do not persuade me now."
Respecting her desire, he doffed his cap and stood aside for her to pass, bowing low before her with all the chivalry of his race, all the ardor of his youth, all the devotion of his manhood in his look and attitude.
The sweetness of the present reality so far transcended her sometime imagination of it that the girl, on leaving him, walked away as if borne by seraph's wings through the air of heaven. Yet there was a note athwart her joy,—not exactly one of sadness or of heaviness, but a feeling, as it were, of maidenly awe before the bright vistas of happiness which had opened before her eyes, in her lover's presence, in his love. Unconsciously she put her hand to her face, as if the sight dazzled her.
A little distance away Revere, having fastened the boat, followed her up the hill. She did not look back, but she could hear his feet upon the steps. He was there, then. He was looking at her as he had looked at her in the boat. He loved her. What had she done to merit this?