She had finished her breakfast and was leaning forward in her rocking-chair, her elbows on her knees, her tiny feet resting on the fender. She was watching the fire-fairies at work building up their wonderful palaces of molten gold studded with opals and rubies. The little lady must have been in deep thought, for she did not know Oliver had entered until she felt his arm on her shoulder.
"Ah, you dear fellow. No, not there; sit right here on this cricket by my side. Stop, do not say a word. I have been studying it all out in these coals. I know all about it—it is about the mountain girl, this—what do you call her?"
"Miss Grant."
"Nonsense! What do YOU call her?"
"Madge."
"Ah, that's something like it. And you love her?"
"Yes." (Pianissimo.)
"And she loves you?"
"YES." (Forte.)
"And you have told her so?"