He started and entered the cottage.
Fortunately for him, the dim eyes of age did not perceive his strong emotion.
“Sit ’ee down, David, and look. Here are two ribbed flannel petticoats, such as couldn’t be got in this country for love nor money. And here is a navy blue shepherd’s cloth, and a fine large double plaid shawl. Look at ’em, David, lad! But Lor’, men don’t know anything about women’s wear. Well, then, look ’ee here. Here is your present, David—a dozen lovely, large, fine white linen handkerchiefs, every one of them marked with your full name by her own hand, and with her own golden hair, David—with the child’s own golden hair.”
“Give them to me!” cried the young man, eagerly catching the parcel from her hand, looking around like some wild animal, with prey that he feared would be snatched from him, and then running up the narrow stairs that led to his own loft.
“What’s come to the poor lad?” cried the old woman, gazing after him. “The Lord defend him from being taken with love!”
Meantime David Lindsay had scrambled up into his own little den.
It was a poor place, with only a leaning roof meeting in a peak overhead, with hardly room enough to stand upright, with bare walls, bare floor, and only one small window of four panes in front, which opened on hinges.
It contained a rude but clean bed, covered with a blue and white patchwork quilt, and one chest that stood under the front window, and one shelf, on which stood Gloria’s precious books. He sat down on the chest, for there was no other seat, and opened his parcel of handkerchiefs, and examined them one by one. He saw his own name on each, worked in minute golden letters, formed of Gloria’s own radiant hair. He pressed each to his lips, to his heart.
“Oh, more precious than all the treasures of Hindostan’s mines are these to me,” he murmured—“her own sacred hair, her own hallowed hands’ work! Oh, my angel, my angel, no word suits you but this—‘angel.’ I have this much of you, at least, and I will never part with it while I live—while I live—and then, afterwards, beyond this world, may there not be some realms of bliss where we may meet, as we met in guileless childhood and love, without a thought of any barrier of rank between us?”
This, and much more; murmured the young man to himself, as he pressed the handkerchiefs to his heart, his lips and burning forehead.