“I will, certainly!” she interrupted, eagerly. “But is he really going to stay down here all winter?”
“I think so! He’s a queer old chap and likes his own way of living,” and Jack smiled. “But his heart’s in the right place! He said the other day, ‘I’d rather feed the robins here, than dine at the Savoy!’ That’s him all over!”
“Is he—is he sorry you’re going?” she asked.
“If he is, he doesn’t show it!” Here the young fellow laughed cheerily. “Oh, he’s game, I can tell you! He told me he was giving me away like a pound of tea!—thoughts running on the American war of independence, I suppose!”
He laughed again, but she was very silent and serious. They had left the rosery, now the thornery, and were walking in a thick little coppice of fir-trees, where occasional gleams of the near river shone through. On a sudden impulse he stopped, and taking her face between his two hands turned it up to him.
“Dear little ‘rose-lady,’” he said, huskily, “say ‘God bless you, Jack!’ before I go!”
“Oh, I do say it!” she answered, sobbingly. “I do say it, and I pray it every night and morning! Jack, dear, believe me I do!”
Somehow or other he had his arms round her,—he had none of the Philosopher’s doubts or hesitations,—and he drew her fondly to him.
“You dear!” he whispered. “But I won’t have you cry! No tears!—or you’ll make a real coward of me! And just now I want to be a hero—for I think, I really do think you care for me,—just a little!”
She was silent, but she put the tiniest little flutter of a kiss on the hand that was nearest to her lips. He thrilled to that caress with all the warm ardour of a Romeo, and releasing her from his hold, drew himself up with an air of joy and pride.