"Oh, Charmian! how wonderful you are!"
"'All in the merry month of May,
When green buds they were swellin'—'"
"Surely no woman ever had such beautiful arms! so round and soft and white, Charmian." She turned upon me with a fork held up admonishingly, but, meeting my look, her eyes wavered, and up from throat to brow rushed a wave of burning crimson.
"Oh, Peter!—you make me—almost—afraid of you," she whispered, and hid her face against my shoulder.
"Are you content to have married such a very poor man—to be the wife of a village blacksmith?"
"Why, Peter—in all the world there never was such another blacksmith as mine, and—and—there!—the kettle is boiling over—"
"Let it!" said I.
"And the bacon—the bacon will burn—let me go, and—oh, Peter!"
So, in due time, we sat down to our solitary wedding breakfast; and there were no eyes to speculate upon the bride's beauty, to note her changing color, or the glory of her eyes; and no healths were proposed or toasts drunk, nor any speeches spoken—except, perhaps by my good friend—the brook outside, who, of course, understood the situation, and babbled tolerantly of us to the listening trees, like the grim old philosopher he was.
In this solitude we were surely closer together and belonged more fully to each other, for all her looks and thoughts were mine, as mine were hers.