“Am I tiring you?” asked John.
“Oh, no,” answered May, with a smile and a blush.
John went across the room, and for a moment stood looking out of the open window at the garden beyond, on which now the cold, white moonbeams fell. May had been leaning there before, and an irresistible impulse seemed to draw him closer to her. It was one of those moments when a strange subtle knowledge comes to two human hearts. He bent his head until it nearly touched the lovely face; he took a little fluttering hand in his.
“Come,” he half-whispered, and led her through the casement which opened from the ground, to the silent dewy garden outside. Pale fantastic shadows lay on flower and leaf, the breeze rustled through the lilac bushes, and stirred the fruit-laden boughs. John forgot everything but the sweet and strong emotion which stirred his heart. He put his arm around the slight girlish form; he drew her to his breast.
“Dear one,” he murmured, and May felt too happy to resist his caress. Her breath came short, her bosom heaved, and her hand lingered tenderly in his.
“Mayflower,” whispered John, “may I call you by that sweet name?”
“Yes,” came fluttering from May’s rosy lips, and the little monosyllable was breathed very near to John’s.
Click went the garden gate at this moment, and the two heard it, and started quickly apart. Then a heavy, determined footstep sounded on the gravel walk, and a second or two later Mr. Churchill appeared. He looked surprised but not displeased to see John Temple with his daughter, and apologized for his absence.
“I waited as long as I could, Mr. Temple,” he said, “but I had some business I was forced to attend to.”
“My uncle delayed me,” answered John, “talking of that unfortunate business; but,” he added, smiling, “Miss Churchill has been very good; she has given me some tea, and the night is so lovely we were taking advantage of it.”