"Has it a soul?" she asked mischievously.
There was a mist in Charles Stuart's deep eyes as he turned towards her.
"Lizzie! It has an immortal soul! It's a musical morning-glory! It has come at last, hasn't it?"
"It was my own fault that it was so long in coming," she said. "But I think it was waiting for you, Stuart."
Charles Stuart's answer was not verbal, but it was more expressive than the most eloquent words.
They plunged gayly down the bank of the creek, hand in hand like two children.
"Oh, oh," cried Elizabeth, "just look at the forget-me-nots! I'm going to make a wreath of them for Eppie's hair."
Far up the creek, a cat-bird, hidden amongst scented basswood blossoms, was singing a gay medley of purest music. On either side the banks were hidden in a luxury of reeds, water-lily leaves, blue forget-me-nots, and gay bobbing lady's-slippers. And between, the winding stream shone pink and gold in the sunrise.
Charles Stuart stood watching his lady as she filled her hands with blossoms.
"You love this place, don't you, 'Lizbeth of The Dale?" he said.