"How good thou art!"
"Good!—I to thee? Shall I tell thee whose picture dwells in my soul by day and night, Elinor?" There was a curious vibration in Neville's voice, as if memory were pulling out the stops of an organ.
"Ay, tell me," said Elinor, tremulously, in a voice scarce above a whisper.
"'Tis that of a girl in a robe of green like the one thou wearest this night—ay, and floating sleeves like thine, whereby she caught the name she bears in my heart."
A softness stole into Elinor's eyes and the flush of girlhood rose to her cheek.
"Ah," Neville went on. "Dost thou remember that day in the Somerset wood, and how I gave thee the name of Lady Greensleeves, and how I sang thee the dear old ballad, thou sitting on the stone wall and I leaning against the great chestnut-tree?"
"Nay, 'twas not a chestnut—'twas an oak, for I do recall the acorns that lay about thy feet as I listened with my eyes cast down."
"And I stood looking at thy lashes, scarce knowing whether I would have them lift or not, as they lay against the rose of thy cheek."
"How long ago it all was!" sighed Elinor.
"Yet when thou dost speak and look like that it seems but yesterday. Oh, my dearest—"