"Forgive me,—I should have spoken,—indeed, I meant to,—but I couldn't think,—it was so sudden,—forgive me! I didn't mean to even touch your hand until I had confessed my deceit. Oh, my dear, —I am not—not the fine gentleman you think me. I am only a very —humble fellow. The son of a village—inn-keeper. Your eyes were—kind to me just now, but, oh Cleone, if so humble a fellow is—unworthy, as I fear,—I—I will try to—forget."
Very still she stood, looking upon his bent head, saw the quiver of his lips, and the griping of his strong hands. Now, when she spoke, her voice was very tender.
"Can you—ever forget?"
"I will—try!"
"Then—oh, Barnabas, don't! Because I—think I could—love this—humble fellow, Barnabas."
The moon, of course, has looked on many a happy lover, yet where find one, before or since, more radiant than young Barnabas; and the brook, even in its softest, most tender murmurs, could never hope to catch the faintest echo of Cleone's voice or the indescribable thrill of it.
And as for the pebble that was so round, so smooth and innocent-seeming, whether its part had been that of beneficent sprite, or malevolent demon, he who troubles to read on may learn.
CHAPTER XLVII
HOW BARNABAS FOUND HIS MANHOOD
"Oh—hif you please, sir!"