“Oh,” she said, lifting her forget-me-not eyes to his, “I am not offended. There is nothing to forgive. It was—beautiful!”
Then his eyes spoke the compliment over again, and the thrill started anew in her heart, till her cheeks grew quite rosy, and she buried her face in the coolness of the tiny flowers to hide her confusion.
“It was very true,” he said in a low, lover-like voice that sounded like a caress.
“Oughtn’t we to hurry on to catch our train?” said Celia, suddenly springing to her feet. “I’m quite rested now.” She felt if she stayed there another moment she would yield to the spell he had cast upon her.
With a dull thud of consciousness the man got himself to his feet and reminded himself that this was another man’s promised wife to whom he had been letting his soul go out.
“Don’t let anything hinder you! Don’t let anything hinder you!” suddenly babbled out the little brook, and he gathered up his suit-cases and started on.
“I am going to carry my suit-case,” declared a very decided voice behind him, and a small hand seized hold of its handle.
“I beg your pardon, you are not!” declared Gordon in a much more determined voice.
“But they are too heavy for you—both of them—and the umbrella too,” she protested. “Give me the umbrella then.”
But he would not give her even the umbrella, rejoicing in his strength to shield her and bear her burdens. As she walked beside him, she remembered vividly a morning when George Hayne had made her carry two heavy baskets, that his hands might be free to shoot birds. Could this be the same George Hayne?