Love, rage, and despair were in the glance he cast after her; but when, a few moments later, as he made his way back toward the mill, he passed Philip Moore, who gave him a pleasant, careless nod, hate—the dangerous hate of envy, jealousy, and ignorance, darkened his swarthy brow.
Poor Alice, nervous almost to sobbing, pursued her homeward way. She had never thought of marriage except as a Paradise in some far, Arcadian land of dreams which she had fashioned from books and the instincts of her young heart; and now to have the idea thrust upon her by this rude, determined fellow, who doubtless considered himself her equal, shocked her as a bird is shocked and hurt by the rifle's clamor. And if this young man thought himself a fit husband for her, perhaps others thought the same—perhaps her father would wish her to accept him, some time in the far future—perhaps Philip—ah, Philip! how almost glorified he looked to her vision as at that moment he came out of the forest-shadows into the path, his straw-hat in his hand, and the wind tossing his brown hair.
"Here is the little humming-bird, at last! was it kind of her to fly away by herself on this last afternoon of my stay?"
How gay his voice, how beaming his smile, while she was so sad! she felt it and grew sadder still. She tried to reply as gayly, but her lip trembled.
"What's the matter with the little Wilde-rose?" he asked, kindly looking down into the suffused eyes.
"I've been thinking how very lonely I shall be. My father is going away, too, you know, and I shall have no one but good old Pallas."
"And that handsome young man I just saw parting from you," he said, mischievously, looking to see her blush and smile.
"Oh, Mr. Moore, is it possible you think I could care for him?" she asked, with a sudden air of womanly pride which vanished in a deep blush the next instant.
"Well, I don't know; you are too good for him," he answered, frankly, as if the idea had just occurred to him.