The girl's kerchief had fallen from her head. He picked it up and gave it to her. Through the thin stuff their fingers touched; the youth felt a thrill in every limb. Suddenly he grasped her hands, his eyes gazing ardently into hers.
"Annikki!" he whispered. He could find no words for the tumult in his veins. "Annikki!" he gasped again, entreatingly.
A faint flush had risen to her cheeks, but her glance met his calmly and frankly. She pressed his hand in answer.
"More than anyone else in all the world?" he asked passionately.
She pressed his hand again, more warmly still.
He was filled with joy, yet somehow uneasy and confused. He wanted to say something—warm, fervent words. Or do something—throw himself at her feet and clasp her knees—anything. But he dared not.
Then his eyes fell on one of the treetops close by He slipped one hand free, and broke off a cluster of blood-red flowers.
"Take them—will you? In memory of how you came to the castle—to
Tapiosborg."
"Olofsborg," she laughed.
The word broke the spell. They looked at each other, and again their laughter rang through the woods.