Should he marry her, then?
“Helia is devotedness itself, tenderness, grace,” he thought; “her poverty is the sister of my own: we are equal. And yet, no! it is impossible, really! I cannot marry Helia—a circus-girl!”
But this objection disappeared before the lofty, frank, luminous look of Helia and the candor of her smile.
And still the days passed on. It was splendid weather. Never had they so appreciated their little oasis, where there was always some breeze while at their feet the city was stifling in the dull heat; though even they themselves were sometimes almost overcome by it.
One afternoon Phil stuck up his canvas in the tool-shed and stretched himself in the shade near Helia. They talked of a thousand things or were silent for a time, clasping each other’s hands. Suddenly Phil jumped up.
“Let us go!” he said. “It is time. We never stayed so late.”
But they found the door closed.
The guardian, no doubt, had glanced around the oasis, and, seeing no one, had closed the door and gone down.
“He must have thought we had gone away,” said Phil. “We are prisoners till to-morrow!”
“What an adventure!” said Helia. Both laughed heartily.