“Yes, for I seem to live in a sphere of poesy when I think of thee.”
“You foolish boy.”
“I am,” he said. “Would I could see thine eyes.”
“And that they were glow-worms,” she said laughingly. “There, good-night, dear Gil. It is late, and I must to bed. If you are my true love, come boldly to the house by day; such meetings as this become neither thee nor me.”
“Stay awhile, sweet,” he said. “What of your guest?”
“Poor fellow! I have not seen him since.”
Gil sighed content.
“There, I must fain go now, dear Gil. Good-night.”
“Nay, nay! a moment longer,” he cried.
“Why, Gil,” she cried, laughing musically, “one would think you were a lover forsaken and forlorn, condemned to stay away—forbidden the house.”