On a lovely day early in June, after four or five hours spent in the usual manner, she turned aside from the vicinity of the hurrying crowds, and seeking out a cool, quiet retreat in a little dell by the side of a limpid stream of water, sat down on a bench in the shade of some weeping willows.
With her hands folded in her lap, her eyes upon the rivulet that went singing and dancing almost at her feet, she was thinking of her lost loved ones, and weighing the chances of meeting them, when some one sprang down the bank and pushed aside the drooping branches which half concealed her from view. Lifting her eyes, there was a simultaneous, joyous exclamation—
“Floy!”
“Espy!”
She hardly knew what followed—so sudden, so great was the glad surprise—but in another moment he was sitting by her side, her hand in his, one arm about her waist, while in an ecstasy of delight he gazed into her blushing, radiant face.
For a time their joy was beyond words; but what need of them? Was it not enough that they were together?
At last Espy spoke. His tones were low and pleading.
“Floy, darling, you will not send me from you again? It is true I have not gained my father’s consent (I have not even seen him or so much as heard from him for over two years), but I am no longer a child; am pushing my own way in the world, and since this thing will affect my happiness so much more nearly than his, and probably long after he has gone from earth, I cannot think it is required of us to wait for that.”
He paused, but the girl did not speak. Her eyes were on the ground, a soft blush suffused her cheek, and a slight smile trembled about her full red lips.