"Nothing would give me more pleasure," he declared; "that is, if you are not afraid of the old tradition becoming true."
She looked up into his face, blushing as crimson as the heart of a deep-red rose.
"I have never heard it," she said. "Do tell me what it is."
"Bye and bye, with your permission, while we are weaving the garlands," Harry answered, with a rich, mellow laugh. "If I should tell you beforehand, you might refuse to accept my services altogether."
"Is it so bad as that?" laughed Iris.
"You had better use the word good instead of bad. The idea would be more pleasant."
"Not knowing what you are talking about, and not possessing the key to solve the riddle of your incomprehensible words, I had better make no further reply, lest I get into deep water," she pouted. "But really you have aroused my curiosity."
"Well, when we have the first wreath made, then, and not until then, will I tell you what they say of the youth and maiden who weave autumn leaves for each other, and together. Come and sit on this mossy ledge. I will spread my overcoat upon it. It shall be your throne."
"I will be a queen, but where will be my king?" laughed Iris, gayly.
"Your king will come a-wooing all in good time," he answered, his dark eyes seeking hers with a meaning glance, which the beauty and coquette understood but too well.