“Hope?” echoed she, chilled, and a little piteously.
“I’m sure of it, darling—quite certain,” he repeated, laughing tenderly; “she’s such a foolish little bird, one must watch their phrases; but I was only thinking—I’m afraid you hardly know what a place this Carwell is.”
“Oh, darling, you forget I’ve seen it—the most picturesque spot I ever saw—the very place I should have chosen—and any place you know, with you! But that’s an old story.”
His answer was a kiss, and—
“Darling, I can never deserve half your love.”
“All I desire on earth is to live alone with my Ry.”
“Yes, darling, we’ll make out life very well here, I’m sure—my only fear is for you. I’ll go out with my rod, and bring you home my basket full of trout, or sometimes take my gun, and kill a hare or a rabbit, and we’ll live like the old Baron and his daughters in the fairy-tale—on the produce of the streams, and solitudes about us—quite to ourselves; and I’ll read to you in the evenings, or we’ll play chess, or we’ll chat while you work, and I’ll tell you stories of my travels, and you’ll sing me a song, won’t you?”
“Too delighted—singing for joy,” said little Alice, in a rapture at his story of the life that was opening to them, “oh, tell more.”
“Well—yes—and you’ll have such pretty flowers.”
“Oh, yes—flowers—I love them—not expensive ones—for we are poor, you know; and you’ll see how prudent I’ll be—but annuals, they are so cheap—and I’ll sow them myself, and I’ll have the most beautiful you ever saw. Don’t you love them, Ry?”