“Won’t you marry me, Pabasca?” he asked hopelessly, for he had asked this question many times, and had always been blankly refused.
“I don’t know,” she replied.
His heart leapt and he drew nearer to her, placing his arm about her waist. They were still standing, and the nightingale was pouring out his heart. He held her firmly and, stretching out his arm to its utmost limit, his hand closed gently on her breast.
“You are changing?” he asked; “you are growing to like me better—to love me?”
Her body yielded to his embrace and she turned to face him.
“Kiss me, Marania,” she said, panting a little, and pouting her lips.
But he kissed her brow instead of her mouth. A wave of irritation passed over her.
“You do not love me!” she said.
“Not love you, little dear?”
He held her away from him for a few moments, looking inquiringly into her face; but she closed her eyes and set her mouth. “How stupid he is!” she thought. He could just see the dusky red of her cheeks. The nightingale’s song ceased suddenly.