"Yes, every word."
"Oh, dear! oh, dear!" with a dismal groan. "And who is to tell them at home, I would like to know?"
"Tell them what?"
"Why, about,—- Surely you don't mean to tell me he is going to marry you after all that?" exclaims Billy, his eyes enlarged to twice their usual size.
"Yes, of course he is," I reply, with much dignity and indignation combined. "When a man loves a woman he does not give her up for a trifle."
"A trifle! Well, I never," murmurs Billy floored for once in his life.
CHAPTER XIV
We are in the orchard of Summerleas alone, Mr. Carrington and I, with the warm but fitful April sun pouring heavily down upon us. All around is one great pink and white sheet of blossoms; the very path beneath our feet seems covered with tinted snow.
It is one of those pet days that, coming too soon, make us discontented to think to-morrow may again be damp and chill—a day that brings with it an early foretaste of what will be, and is still and heavy as in the heart of summer.
"It will be a good year for fruit," I tell my lover, soberly, "the trees are showing such a fair promise." And my lover laughs, and tells me I am a wonderful child; that he has not yet half dived into the deep stores of private knowledge I possess. He supposes when I come to Strangemore he may dismiss his steward, as probably I will be competent to manage everything there—the master included.