"No. I would not give you that trouble for the world," she says, mischievously, and then the dawning smile widens, brightens into something indescribable, but perfect.
"Oh, Monica, I do think you are the sweetest thing on earth," says the young man, with sudden fervid passion; and then all at once, and for the first time, he puts out his arms impulsively and draws her to him. She colors,—still smiling, however,—and after a brief hesitation, moves slowly but decidedly back from him.
"You don't hate me to touch you, do you?" asks he, rather hurt.
"Oh, no, indeed!" hurriedly. "Only——"
"Only what, darling?"
"I hardly know what," she answers, looking bewildered. "Perhaps because it is all so strange. Why should you love me better than any one?—and yet you do," anxiously, "don't you?"
The innocently-expressed anxiety makes his heart glad.
"I adore you," he says, fervently; and then, "Did no one ever place his arm round you before, Monica?"
He finds a difficulty in even asking this.
"No, no," with intense surprise at the question, and a soft, quick glance that is almost shamed. "I never had a lover in my life until I met you. No one except you ever told me I was pretty. The first time you said it I went home (when I was out of your sight," reddening, "I ran all the rest of the way) and looked at myself in the glass. Then," naively, "I knew you were right. Still I had my doubts; so I called Kit and told her about it; and she," laughing, "said you were evidently a person of great discrimination, so I suppose she agreed with you."