On the day after he had seen Joe in Boston he rode over to Sherwood in the morning, as usual, upon one of Vancouver’s horses. He was lighter at heart than ever, for he had somewhat dreaded the revelation of his intentions to Joe; but she had so led him on and helped him that it had all seemed very easy. He was not long in reaching his destination, and having put his horse in the hands of the single man who did duty as gardener, groom, and dairyman for old Mr. Sherwood, he entered the garden, where he hoped to meet Sybil alone. He was not disappointed, for as he walked down the path through the wilderness of shrubbery he caught sight of her near the summer-house, stooping down in the act of plucking certain flowers that grew there.
She, too, was dressed all in white, as he had seen his cousin on the previous day; but the difference struck him forcibly as he came up and took her outstretched hand. They had changed places and character, one could almost have thought. Joe had looked so tired and weary, so “wilted,” as they say in Boston, that it had shocked Ronald to see her. Sybil, who had formerly been so pale and cold, now was the very incarnation of life; delicate and exquisitely fine in every movement and expression, but most thoroughly alive. The fresh soft color seemed to float beneath the transparent skin, and her deep eyes were full of light and laughter and sunshine. Ronald’s heart leaped in his breast for love and pride as she greeted him, and his brow turned hot and his hands cold in the confusion of his happiness.
“You have been away again?” she asked presently, looking down at the wild white lilies which she had been gathering.
“Yes, I was in Boston yesterday,” answered Ronald, who had immediately begun to help in plucking the flowers. “I went to see Joe. She looks dreadfully knocked up with the heat, poor child.”
And so they talked about Joe and Boston for a little while, and Sybil sat upon the steps of the summer-house on the side where there was shade from the hot morning sun, while Ronald brought her handfuls of the white lilies. At last there were enough, and he came and stood before her. She was so radiantly lovely as she sat in the warm shade with the still slanting sunlight just falling over her white dress, he thought her so super-humanly beautiful that he stood watching her without thinking of speaking or caring that she should speak to him. She looked up and smiled, a quick bright smile, for she was woman enough to know his thoughts. But she busied herself with the lilies and looked down again.
“Let me help you,” said Ronald suddenly, kneeling down before her on the path.
“I don’t think you can–very much,” said Sybil, demurely. “You are not very clever about flowers, you know. Oh, take care! You will crush it– give it back to me!”
Ronald had taken one of the lilies and was smelling it, but it looked to Sybil very much as though he were pressing it to his lips. He would not give it back, but held it away at arm’s length as he knelt. Sybil made as though she were annoyed.
“Of course,” said she, “I cannot take it, if you will not give it to me.” Ronald gently laid the flower in her lap with the others. She pretended to take no notice of what he did, but went on composing her nosegay.
“Miss Brandon”–began Ronald, and stopped.