It was her own Espy again. Tears of joy rained down her cheeks; she could not speak for emotion; but she did not repulse him as he took her in his arms and folded her to his heart with many a tender caress, whispering the while, “Floy, Floy! my own darling, my own little wife!”
“No, no, not that!” she sobbed. “Oh, Espy, Espy, we must part!”
“For a little while—only for a little while—dearest.”
“Your parents—have they relented?” she asked, wiping the tears from her eyes and gazing steadily into his.
His cheek flushed.
“I shall be of age in a few weeks, and be my own master,” he said, drawing himself up proudly.
“But not mine,” she said very low—so low that he scarcely caught the words—and gently releasing herself from his embrace.
He flushed more hotly than before. “Oh, Floy, have I ever seemed to think it? Nay, have I not rather been your devoted slave?”
“You were always good to me, Espy; always watching over and caring for me, and ready and anxious to give me the best of everything. Oh, I shall never, never forget your goodness! no, not even if—”