"But, oh!" resumed Nelly, "if I thought he did love me—there, now, I've dropped a stitch—what am I thinkin' of?—I mustn't give way to such foolishness. Why, the bird is done singin', and Minny is looking angry at me out of her big eyes—don't be jealous, puss, you shall always have your saucer of milk, whatever happens, and—hark! that's his step, it is! he's comin'! I wonder how I look," and running to her little glass, Nelly, with very pardonable vanity, thought those features could not well be improved, and—the most curious part of the matter—she was right.
"He's a long time coming," thought she, as, stealing a glance through the white window-curtain she saw Ned slowly approach the garden gate; gladly would she have flown to meet him, but maidenly modesty restrained her; now he hesitates a moment, takes a full gulp of breath, and nears the house; at every approaching step, Nelly's pulse beat higher; at last she bethought herself it would be more prudent to be employed; so, hastily taking up her work, which was twisted and ravelled into inextricable confusion, with a seeming calm face she mechanically plied her needles, her heart giving one little shiver as Ned rapped a small, chicken-livered rap at the door. Nelly opened it with a most disingenuous, "Ah! Ned, is that you? who would have thought it! Come in, do."
The thermometer of Nelly's feelings was about fever heat, yet she forced the index to remain at freezing point. "Take a chair, won't you?"
And there sat those two beings, whose hearts yearned for each other, looking as frigid as a pair of icicles, gazing on the wall, the floor, pussy, or the lark. Ned suddenly discovered something that wanted a deal of attending to in the band of his hat; whilst Nelly, at the same time, evinced an extraordinary degree of affection for the cat. To say the truth, they were both very far from comfortable. Ned had thoroughly made up his mind to speak this time if ruin followed, and had even gone so far as to have settled upon his opening speech, but Nelly's cold and indifferent "take a chair," frightened every word out of his head; it was essentially necessary that he should try to recover himself, and he seemed to think that twisting his hat into every possible form and tugging at the band were the only possible means by which it could be accomplished. Once more all was arranged, and he had just cleared his throat to begin, when the rascally cat turned sharply round and stared him straight in the face, and in all his life he thought he never saw the countenance of a dumb creature express such thorough contempt.
"It well becomes me," thought he, "to be demeanin' myself before the cat," and away flew his thoughts again.
Of course, all this was very perplexing to Nelly, who, in the expectation of hearing something interesting, remained patiently silent. There was another considerable pause; at last, remembering his friend Mike's advice, and, moreover, cheered by a most encouraging smile from the rapidly-thawing Nell, Ned wound up his feelings for one desperate effort, and bolted out—
"Isn't it fine to day, Miss Malone?"
Breaking the silence so suddenly that Nelly started from her chair, the lark fluttered in the cage, and puss made one jump bang into the garden.
Amazed and terrified by the results of his first essay, fast to the roof of his mouth Ned's tongue stuck once more, and finding it of no earthly use trying to overcome his embarrassment—that the more he floundered about the deeper he got into the mud, he gathered himself up, made one dash through the door, and was off like lightning. Nelly sighed as she resumed her knitting, and this time she was sad in earnest.
"Well, what luck?" said Mike, as, nearly out of breath from running, Ned rejoined him in the meadow. "Have you broke the ice?"