"Weak as the bending grass, Isabel, under this load of love. But though he, I say, were as weak as I, you—ah, you!—are as wise as you are bewitching; and if I should speak to you from my most craven fear, I could find but one word of warning."
"Oh, you dear, blind flatterer! And what word would that be?"
"That you are most bewitching when you are wisest."
As Isabel softly laughed she cast a dreaming glance behind, and noticed that she and Arthur were quite hidden in the flowery undergrowth of the hill path. They kissed.
"Beloved," said her worshipper, with a clouded smile, as he let her down from her tiptoes, "do you know you took that as though you were thinking of something else?"
"Did I? Oh, I didn't mean to."
Such a reply only darkened the cloud. "Of whom were you thinking, Isabel?"
She blushed. "I was think—thinking—why, I was—I—I was think—thinking"—she went redder and redder as he went pale—"thinking of everybody on Bylow Hill. Why—why, dear heart, don't you see? When you"—
"Oh, enough, enough, my angel! I take the question back!"
"You made me think of everybody, Arthur, you were so sudden. Just suppose I had done so to you!" They both thought that worthy of a good laugh. "Next time, dear," added Isabel,—"no, no, no, but—next time, you mustn't be so sudden. There's no need, you know,"—she blushed again,—"and I promise you I'll give my whole mind to it! Get me some of that hawthorn bloom yonder, and let's go back."