The moment the meal was over, he left the room, and in five minutes they met at the place appointed—a building like a miniature Roman temple.
“Oh,” said Lufa, as she entered, “I forgot the book. How stupid of me!”
“Never mind,” returned Walter. “It was you, not the book I wanted.”
A broad bench went round the circular wall; Lufa seated herself on it, and Walter placed himself beside her, as near as he dared. For some moments he did not speak. She looked up at him inquiringly. He sunk at her feet, bowed his head toward her, and but for lack of courage would have laid it on her knees.
“Oh, Lufa!” he said, “you can not think how I love you!”
“Poor, dear boy!” she returned, in the tone of a careless mother to whom a son has unburdened his sorrows, and laid her hand lightly on his curls.
The words were not repellent, but neither was the tone encouraging.
“You do not mind my saying it?” he resumed, feeling his way timidly.
“What could you do but tell me?” she answered.
“What could I do for you if you did not let me know! I’m so sorry, Walter!”