After a few weeks it seemed as though the interest between the young neighbours became mutual—for Olive, in her walks, sometimes fancied she saw faces watching her, too from the staircase window. And once, peering over the wall, she perceived the mischievous eyes and pointed finger of the elder boy, and heard the younger one say, reproachfully—
“Don't—pray! You are very cruel, Bob.”
And Olive, deeply blushing—though at what she scarcely knew—fled into the house, and did not take her usual garden walks for some days.
At last, when, one lovely spring evening, she stood leaning over the low wall at the garden's end, idly watching the river flow by beneath, she turned round, and saw fixed on her, with a curiosity not unmingled with interest, the dark eyes of “Maddalena.” Somehow or other, the two girls smiled—and then the elder spoke.
“The evening was very fine,” she said; “and it was rather dull, walking in the garden all alone.”
Olive had never found it so; but she was used to it. Her young neighbour was not; she had always lived in a large town, etc. etc.
A few more simple nothings spun out the conversation for ten minutes. The next day it was resumed, and extended to twenty; during which Olive learnt that her young beauty's name, so far from being anything so fine as Maddalena, was plain Sarah—or Sara, as its owner took care to explain. Olive was rather disappointed—but she thought of Coleridge's ladye love; consoled herself, and tried to console the young lady, with repeating,
My pensive Sarah! thy soft cheek reclined, etc.
At which Miss Sara Derwent laughed, and asked who wrote that very pretty poetry?
Olive was a little confounded. She fancied everybody read Coleridge, and her companion sank just one degree in her estimation. But as soon as she looked again on the charming face, with its large, languishing Asiatic eyes, and delicate mouth—just like that of the lotus-leaved “Clytie,” which she loved so much,—Olive felt all her interest revive.