"Yes," she said, softly, while her fair face grew crimson as she remembered how wildly she had wept and clung to his neck then.
He read what was passing in her mind, and smiled slightly.
"Your farewell gift, that shining ring of gold, I have kept ever since, as a talisman against all evil," he said, with a slight twinge of conscience as he remembered where it was—at the bottom of one of his trunks, with some scores of other tresses, severed from other fair heads, their owners long since forgotten.
"I am glad you did not forget me during your absence," said Celeste, feeling very much confused, and not knowing very well what she was expected to reply.
"Forget you, Celeste! Who could ever do so after beholding you once?" Then, seeing how painfully she was embarrassed, he turned gayly away, saying: "Good-bye, fairest Celeste! When shall we meet again?"
"I know not. Next Sunday, at church, perhaps."
"As if I could exist so long without seeing my fair Star of the Valley! May I not come to-morrow, Celeste?"
"Yes, if you will bring Gipsy."
"Oh, never mind Gipsy! She will most probably be 'over the hills and far away' long before I open my eyes on this mortal life in the morning. Therefore, to-morrow will behold me once more by the side of my liege lady."
And bowing lightly, he sprang into the saddle and galloped off, followed by Celeste's eyes until he was out of sight.