"It is a beautiful evening, Ishmael; I have never seen the garden look more lovely," said Bee.
And it was indeed a beautiful evening and a lovely scene. The sun had just set; but all the western horizon and the waters of the distant river were aflame with crimson fire of his reflected rays; while over the eastern hills the moon and stars were shining from the dark gray heavens. In the garden, the shrubs and flowers, not yet damp with dew, were sending forth their richest fragrance; the latest birds were twittering softly before settling themselves to sleep in their leafy nests; and the earliest insects were tuning up their tiny, gleeful pipes before commencing their evening concert.
"This garden is a very pleasant place, quite as pleasant as
Tanglewood, if uncle would only think so," said Bee.
"Yes, it is very pleasant. You do not like the plan of returning to the country, Bee?" said Ishmael.
"No, indeed, I do not; breaking up and parting is always a painful process." And Bee's lips quivered and the tears came into her eyes.
Ishmael pressed the little hand that lay light as a snowflake on his arm, drew it closer within his embrace, and turned down the narrow path that led to the remote arbor situated far down in the angle of the wall in the bottom of the garden.
He led her to a seat, placed himself beside her, took her hand, and said:
"It is here, dearest Bee—here in the scene of my humiliation and of my redemption—that I would say to you all I have to say; that I would lay my heart open before you, and place it at your feet, for spurning, or for blessing."
She looked up at him with surprise, but also with infinite affection in her innocent and beautiful eyes. Then, as she read the truth in his earnest gaze, her eyes fell, and her color rose.
"And dearest Bee, I have your father's sanction for what I do, for without it I would not act."