An eloquent silence follows this earnest speech. The smile dies from Monica's lips, and a sudden thoughtfulness replaces it.
"You never called any one your 'heart of hearts' before, then?" she asks, somewhat wistfully.
"Never—never. You believe me?"
"Yes." Her lids drop. Some inward thought possesses her, and then—with a sudden accession of tenderness very rare with her—she lifts her head, and lays her soft, cool cheek fondly against his.
"My beloved!" says the young man, in a tone broken by emotion.
For a moment he does not take her in his arms; some fear lest she may change her mind and withdraw her expression of affection deters him; and when at last he does press her to his heart, it is gently and with a careful suppression of all vehemence.
Perhaps no man in all the world is so calculated to woo and win this girl as Desmond. Perhaps there is no woman so formed to gain and keep him as Monica.
Holding her now in a light but warm clasp, he knows he has his heaven in his arms; and she, though hardly yet awake to the full sweetness of "Love's young dream," understands at least the sense of perfect rest and glad content that overfills her when with him.
"What are you thinking of?" she says, presently.
"'Myn alderlevest ladye deare,'" quotes he, softly.