“No, sweetest girl, we could not! we could not. And did you miss our tête-à-têtes so much, mine own?” he asked, seating himself in a large resting-chair, and drawing her toward him, much, very much, as a father might draw a daughter to sit upon his knees.
But the Lutheran minister’s child was very delicately shy, and that beautiful shyness was one of her most bewitching charms. Softly and gently, and without offence, she evaded his motion, and passed in behind his chair and bent playfully over him.
“Oh, yes, yes! I missed our tête-à-têtes so much! I missed you every day and every hour in the day!”
“Did you, my dearest one! did you, indeed, miss me—such a gray, wrinkled, careworn wretch as I am?” he said.
She bent over him with caressing tenderness.
It was true! Six months before this time there had not been one silver thread in the raven tresses, or one line on the ivory forehead of Colonel Eastworth; but now care had streaked his hair with gray, and the constant habit of frowning had planted deep wrinkles between his brows.
Erminie leaned over him with caressing tenderness, and pressed her lips to that spot on the top of his head where the thin hair indicated swiftly approaching baldness.
“I love you more for every white hair and every deep wrinkle; they are indices of thought and of suffering; and how can I but love you more for them?” murmured Erminie, laying her soft cheek upon his head.
“Come around here, my own! my own! I am your husband, or soon to be so! Sit where I can see your sweet face!” he pleaded, reaching behind him and getting hold of her hand and trying to draw her around.
“I will sit here and look up into your face—ever the most beloved face in the universe to me!” murmured Erminie, softly, as she drew a footstool to his feet and seated herself upon it, and placed her hand in his.