"Oh! you will have mine, Richard."
"Tom shall wait far it. A long one, mind! Did you like my last song?"
She pats her hand quietly against her bosom, and he knows where it rests.
O love! O heaven!
They are aroused by the harsh grating of the bow of the boat against the shingle. He jumps out, and lifts her ashore.
"See!" she says, as the blush of his embrace subsides—"See!" and prettily she mimics awe and feels it a little, "the cypress does point towards us. O Richard! it does!"
And he, looking at her rather than at the cypress, delighting in her arch grave ways—
"Why, there's hardly any shadow at all, Lucy. She mustn't dream, my darling! or dream only of me."
"Dearest! but I do."
"To-morrow, Lucy! The letter in the morning, and you at night. O happy to-morrow!"
"You will be sure to be there, Richard?"