“No,” she said firmly, “it could not be!”
“Not be!” he said in a tone of so much misery that little Miss Rosebury added:
“Not for me to go out there. We must wait.”
“Wait!”
“Yes; a few years soon pass away, and you will return.”
“But we—I mean—I am getting so precious old,” said the doctor dismally.
“Yes, we should be much older, Henry,” said the little lady sweetly, as she held out her hand; “but surely our esteem would never fade.”
“Never!” he cried, kissing her hand again; and then he laid that hand upon his arm, and they went out into the garden, where the little lady’s eyes soon made out the Reverend Arthur bending over his choicest flowers, to pick the finest blossoms for a bouquet ready for Helen Perowne to carelessly throw aside.
Satisfied that her brother was in no imminent danger with Grey Stuart present, little Miss Rosebury made no opposition to a walk round; the doctor thinking that perhaps, now the ice was broken, he might manage to prevail.
“How beautiful the garden is!” said the little lady, to turn the conversation.