"Then, Barnabas,—you will go?"
"Must I, Cleone? It will be so very hard to lose you—so soon."
"But a man always chooses the harder course, doesn't he, Barnabas?
And, dear, you cannot lose me,—and so you will go, won't you?"
"Yes, I'll go—because I love you!"
Then Cleone drew him deeper into the shade of the willows, and with a sudden, swift gesture, reached up her hands and set them about his neck.
"Oh my dear," she murmured, "oh Barnabas dear, I think I can guess—now. And I'm sure—the boy—can't see us—here!"
No, surely, neither this particular brook nor any other water-brook, stream or freshet, that ever sang, or sighed, or murmured among the reeds, could ever hope to catch all the thrilling tenderness of the sweet soft tones of Cleone's voice.
A brook indeed? Ridiculous!
Therefore this brook must needs give up attempting the impossible, and betake itself to offensive chuckles and spiteful whisperings, and would have babbled tales to the Duchess had that remarkable, ancient lady been versed in the language of brooks. As it was, she came full upon Master Milo still intent upon the heavens, it is true, but in such a posture that his buttons stared point-blank and quite unblushingly towards a certain clump of willows.
"Oh Lud!" exclaimed the Duchess, starting back, "dear me, what a strange little boy! What do you want here, little man?"