"Then is this it?" she exclaimed, picking up the chisel from the block.
"Yes, that's mine." He held out his hand for it.
"Indeed, you're not going to have it—not this one! I'll buy you another, but this is mine. Wasn't I holding it in my hand and thinking of you when I saw you coming over the meadows?"
"Keep it—and I'll keep something I have of yours."
"Of mine? Where did you get anything of mine? Surely it isn't the peppered rosebud?"
"Oh, no. I've had it nearly seven years."
"Seven years!" She exclaimed in genuine surprise. "And whatever have you had of mine I'd like to know that has kept seven years? It's neither silver nor gold—for I've little of either; not that silver or gold can make a man happy," she added quickly, fearing he might be sensitive to her speech.
"No; I've learned that, Aileen, thank God!"
"What is it then?—tell me quick."
He thrust his hand into the workman's blouse and drew forth a small package, wrapped in oiled silk and sewed to a cord that was round his neck. He opened it.