"Ah—don't you know—even yet?" said she passionately. "You are so different, so gentle—oh, you're—just Peregrine! Ah, it isn't your money I want, or to be a fine lady like your aunt wi' horses and carriages and servants; ah, not dear Peregrine, no—it's just you and me together in the Silent Places—"
"And so we will be," I cried, "together in life and death—"
"O Peregrine, it isn't a dream is it—a dream that can't come true.
You'll—make me marry you, won't you?"
"Ah, by God I will—whenever you are ready, for you are mine!"
"Yes, yours," she whispered, "for ever and always! You ha' no doubts o' the future, have ye, Peregrine?"
"None!" said I, arrogant in my happiness.
"When I called you cocksure I—loved you for it!"
Thus sat we, embracing and embraced, beside this prattling stream, looking upon the glory of this midsummer morning and each other to find all things ever more beautiful, and knowing a happiness that went far beyond mere speech.
Birds have sung as blithely—perhaps; the sun may have beamed as kindly and brooks have laughed as joyously as this chattering rill of ours, but as for me, I soberly doubt it.
"Peregrine," said she at last, "where is my locket?"