"Oh, I have it! I have it!" added Annie, springing forward and picking something up. "'Tis here—on my honour a glove!"
"A lady's—it fell from his breast," said Lilian in a breathless voice.
"Of beautiful point lace—one of yours, gossip Lilian? O brave!—ha! ha!"
"Mine—mine, said you?" Lilian's voice faltered; she grew pale and red alternately, while adding, with an air of confusion, "You are jesting as usual, you daft lassie. Oh, surely 'tis a mistake!"
"Judge for yourself, love. I saw you mark it: here are your initials worked in beads of blue and silver."
"It is but too true—I lost it some weeks ago," faltered Lilian, whose timid blue eyes stole one furtive glance at the handsome culprit under their long brown lashes, and were instantly cast down in the utmost confusion. She was excited almost to tears.
"Forsooth, there is something immensely curious in all this, Mr. Fenton," continued the waggish Annie, twirling the little glove aloft on the point of her riding-switch. "We must have you arraigned before the High Court of Love, and compelled to confess, under terror of his bow-string, to a jury of fair ladies, when and wherefore you obtained this glove."
"Now, Mr. Fenton, do;" urged Lilian, entering somewhat into the gay spirit of her friend, though her happy little heart vibrated with confusion and joy as tumultuously as a moment ago it had beat with jealousy and fear. "Tell us when you got it, and all about it."
"The night Ichabod Bummel was arrested," replied Walter, who still coloured deeply at this unexpected discovery, for he was yet but young in the art of love.
"Aha, and Lilian gave it! My pretty little prude, and is it thus with thee?"