"Talking of Loves, 'twas a pretty thing that Antonius Tebaltius wrote, and Thompson paraphrased, and Norcot improved—
"'Venus whipt Cupid t'other day,
For having lost his bow and quiver;
The which he'd given both away
To Gracie by a Dartmoor river.
"Mamma! you wrong me while you strike,"
Cried weeping Cupid, "for 'tis true
That you and she are so alike,
I thought that I had given 'em you!"'"
"You've missed the gate while you chattered," said Grace; "now we must climb over the wall."
"I generally do miss the gate with you," he answered. "Don't these beautiful pearls that I utter move even a spark of pity?"
"Of pity—yes."
"'Tis akin to love."
"As often akin to contempt."
"In mean natures; never in yours."
He helped her over the wall, then spoke again as they hurried on with heads bent to the snow.
"'Twas that young American then? Why so silent about it? Why ashamed to tell frankly who 'tis you really do love? I blazon my emotions to the world and do it proudly. Can you not be as open?"