“I beg your pardon, but you startled me so, and really for a moment I thought that you were the spirit of the place, or,” he added, gracefully, pointing to a branch of half-opened hawthorn bloom she held in her hand, “the original Queen of the May.”
Angela blushed again. The compliment was only implied this time; she had therefore no possible pretext for getting angry.
For a moment she dropped the sweet eyes that looked as though they were fresh from reading the truths of heaven before his gaze of unmistakable admiration, and stood confused; and, as she stood, it struck Arthur that there was something more than mere beauty of form and feature about her—an indescribable something, a glory of innocence, a reflection of God’s own light that tinged the worship her loveliness commanded with a touch of reverential awe.
“The angels must look like that,” he thought. But he had no time to think any more, for next moment she had gathered up her courage in both her hands, and was speaking to him in a soft voice, of which the tones went ringing on through all the changes of his life.
“My father told me that he had asked you to come and fish, but I did not expect to meet you so early. I—I fear that I am disturbing you,” and she made as though she would be going.
Arthur felt that this was a contingency to be prevented at all hazards.
“You are Miss Caresfoot,” he said, hurriedly, “are you not?”
“Yes—I am Angela; I need not ask your name, my father told it me. You are Mr. Arthur Heigham.”
“Yes. And do you know that we are cousins?” This was a slight exaggeration, but he was glad to advance any plea to her confidence that occurred to him.
“Yes; my father said something about our being related. I have no relations except my cousin George, and I am very glad to make the acquaintance of one,” and she held out her hand to him in a winning way.