“Really, it doesn’t hurt—not much.”
“I see you were born to be a heroine.”
“And you’re a ‘knight comes riding by, riding by, riding by’——”
“‘So early in the morning,’” he finished. “If the knight were sure you thought so”—his eyes were on her cheek—“he might claim a knight’s reward.”
She fell abruptly silent.
The Maryland spring was well advanced, and the path along which they moved was carpeted with flowers. The blue bells of the wild myrtle swung almost at their feet. Scarlet runners rioted over the low stone wall at their hand. The sycamores and oaks were clothed in tenderest green. Beyond the left-hand wall, rows of peach-trees marched away, flaunting banners of pink and white.
Fessenden heard the tinkle of the brook, winding in the shadow of overhanging banks. Sights and sounds lulled him. He felt himself in harmony with the quiet mood of the girl in his arms.
Truly this was an unexpected adventure! His eyes rested upon the piquant face so near his own. It possessed a refinement of outline that was belied by the humble fashion of her gown and by the position in which he had surprised her. The precocious daughter of a farmer, perhaps, or at best the neglected child of one of the war-ruined “first families of the South.”
He found himself speculating upon the sort of house he was likely to discover at the end of the lane—perhaps a crumbling colonial mansion, equipped with a Confederate colonel and a faithful former slave or two.
He smiled unconsciously at the red mouth, and was somewhat disconcerted to find the blue eyes watching him.