Betty looked up archly, but meeting the ardent glance of his brown eyes, looked down again and colored like a rose.
“Nay, sir,” she said, “I never yet could read a riddle.”
A soft breeze shaking the bough overhead, some apple blossoms dropped upon her like a fragrant snowfall.
“I saw your uncle, Mistress Carew,” Simon said softly, “and I pleaded my cause with him and won it; ’tis for you to condemn me now, or bless me.”
They stood near the high wall of the orchard; it was very still, and Mistress Betty kept her eyes upon the ground.
He put out his hand and took hers gently; his manner was tender as to a child; her stately beauty did not make her a great lady in his eyes, he saw beyond it the tender heart.
“Mistress Carew, Betty,” he said softly, “I have no scar upon my brow.”
At this, a smile stole over Betty’s rosy face and she gave him an arch glance.
“You might have had one, sir, but for my Lady Crabtree,” she said roguishly.
He kissed her hands. “I love you,” he whispered tenderly; “will you make me happy, or must I go hence with a heavy heart?”