Presently she did, and then the woman, not the child, came uppermost.
“Reginald,” she said, “tell me, is Miss Hall very beautiful?”
“I hardly know how to answer you, Annie. I sometimes think she is. Fragile, rather, with masses of glittering brown hair, and hazel eyes that are sometimes very large, as she looks at you while you talk. But,” he added, “there can be no true love unless there is a little jealousy. Ah, Annie,” he continued, smiling, “I see it in your eye, just a tiny wee bit of it. But it mustn’t increase. I have plighted my troth to you, and will ever love you as I do now, as long as the sun rises over yonder woods and forests.”
“I know, I know you will,” said Annie, and once more the head was laid softly on his shoulder.
“There is one young lady, however, of whom you have some cause to be jealous.”
“And she?”
“I confess, Annie, that I loved her a good deal. Ah, don’t look sad; it is only Matty, and she is just come five.”
Poor Annie laughed in a relieved sort of way. The lovers said little more for a time, but presently went for a walk in the flower-gardens, and among the black and crimson buds of autumn. Reginald could walk but slowly yet, and was glad enough of the slight support of Annie’s arm.
“Ah, Annie,” he said, “it won’t be long before you shall be leaning on my arm instead of me on yours.”
“I pray for that,” said the child-woman.