"Your birthday."
"Yes; I am just twenty-three."
"The number of the old corps, Winifred--the number, see it when he may, a soldier never forgets."
"But I hope you have bidden good-bye to it for ever."
"Too probably; and you cannot know, dear Winifred, how deep is the pleasure I feel in being here again, after all I have undergone--here in pleasant Craigaderyn; and more than all with you--hearing your familiar voice, and looking into your eyes."
"Why?" she asked, looking out on the sunlit chase.
"Can you ask me why, when you know that I love you, Winny, and have always loved you?"
"As a friend, of course," said she, trembling very much; "yes--but nothing more."
"I repeat that I love you tenderly and truly; have I not ever known your worth, your goodness--"
"Is this true, Harry Hardinge?" she asked, in a low voice, as my arm encircled her, and she looked coyly but tremblingly down.