"You think I am very hasty, Annie. You don't know how long I've loved you, and have waited for this hour."
"Long!—two weeks," she said.
"Why, Annie, darling, it is over three months since I've been able to think of anything save Annie Grey—ever since the night I received my diploma, and your sweet, encouraging bouquet, since that night I've known and loved you. And how I've worked for this hour!"
And then he told her how it was. And when he had finished, she looked at him, her eyes dancing merrily, and though she tried hard to keep the little rosebud of a mouth demurely shut, it was no use—it would open and let escape a rippling laugh, as she said:
"And this is the work my bouquet went about, is it? This is the good it has done me—" She hesitated; the roses deepened their color as she continued: "And you—"
"Yes, Annie, it has done much good to me, and I hope to you too."
"But, Edgar—" it was the first time she had called him thus, and how happy it made him—"I must tell you the truth—I never sent you a bouquet!"
"No! oh, do not say so. Can there be another such Annie Grey?"
"No; I am the one who sent the bouquet; but, Edgar, you received it through a mistake. It was intended for my brother-in-law, Edward!"
"Stop, Annie, a moment— Are you sorry that mistake was made? Do you regret it?" said Edgar, his voice filled with emotion.