Helena smiled, and continued both her garland-weaving and her song.
“If you ask who is my dearest,
It is he who loiters nearest;
And for him this chaplet fair
Do I weave with flowerets rare.
Fa la! la! la!
My Colin dear.”
“Better and better!” said the lover, mounting the steps. “I am nearest! I have yellow locks, so I decidedly am Colin dear!”
They were now standing on either side of the altar, with the rainbow heap of flowers between them; and, despite Maurice’s boldness in thus coming so close to his goddess, he was now seized with a fit of shyness, which communicated itself to the sympathetic Helena, so they gazed with embarrassment at one another, tongue-tied, with burning cheeks.
“Where is Zoe?” asked Maurice, breaking the awkward silence.