“I wish it were rather a handsomer-looking thing,” said the young man, looking rather ruefully at the little specimen.
“I shall prize it for the sake of the giver,” she said,
with a slight blush. “But I am afraid you have spoilt your knife.”
“Oh, not at all. Do let me dig up some more.”
“No, thank you; do not trouble. See what a pretty bank of wild thyme.”
“Would you like to sit down upon it? You know it smells all the sweeter for being crushed.”
“Well, it does really look most inviting.” Florence sat down, saying as she did so, “How lovely the wild flowers are—heather and harebells.”
“Let me gather some for you.” He began plucking the flowers, which flourished in such profusion and variety that a nosegay grew in every foot of turf. “When do you think of leaving Babbicombe?”
“In two or three days.”
“So soon!”