"In the sunny, southern orchard fronting on some tawny beach, Exquisite with silky softness hangs the downy silver peach; But as dainty as the beauty of the bloom whereof I speak—Rain, nor sun, nor frost can change it—is the bloom on Annette's cheek."
"Oh, monsieur! I do not know what to say, if you really made these verses about me. If you did, they are not true; I am sure they are not;" and her confusion was a most exquisite sight to see.
"But I have not described your eyes yet; here are the two lines that
I made about them:
"Annette's eyes are starlight mingled with the deepest dusk of
night;—
Eyes with lustre rich and glorious like some sweet, warm, southern
light."
"Oh, no, no, monsieur, they are not true; I don't want you to say any more of them to me," and she put her hand over her face; for the dear little one's embarrassment was very great.
"That is all I wrote about you; but I may write some more. You say, petite, that they are not true. I confess that they are not—true enough. Why, sweet, brave, and most lovely of girls, they fall far short of showing your merits in the full. I have so far tried to explain only what is beautiful in your face; but, darling, you have a nobleness of soul that no language of mine could describe.
"I believe, my heroic love, that you have regarded yourself as a mere plaything in my eyes. Why, ma chere, all of my heart you have irrevocably. One of your dear hands is more precious to me, than any other girl whom mine eyes have ever seen. Do you remember the definition of love that I tried to give you? Well, I gave it from my own experience. With such a love, my prairie flower, do I adore you. It is fit now that we are so soon to part, that I should tell you this: and you will know that every blow I strike, every noble deed I do, shall be for the approbation of the dear heart from whom fate severs me. And though the hours of absence will be dreary there will lie beyond the darkest of them one hope which shall blaze like a star through the night, and this is, that I shall soon be able to call my Annette my own sweet bride. Now, my beloved, if that wished-for time had come, and I were to say, 'Will you be mine, Annette,' what would your answer be?"
"I did not think it was necessary for Monsieur to ask me that question," she answered shyly, her beautiful eyes cast down; "I thought he knew."
"My own little hunted pet!" He checked his horse, and seized the bridle of Annette's pony, till the two animals stood close together. Then he kissed the girl upon her dew-wet lips, murmuring low,
"My love!"