"Yes, indeed, come in and talk to Geraldine. You are very excusable under the circumstances."
And, lighting up the poor, but neat, little room, she left them and retired to the adjoining one, where she busied herself with little preparations for the morrow, so as not to embarrass the lovers by her presence.
As for them, when they were left alone, Hawthorne, still standing, took Geraldine's hand and drew her to him, gazing into her face with tender, questioning blue eyes.
The answering look in her sweet tearful eyes was so satisfactory that he said:
"I think everything is explained between us now, is it not, Geraldine? You must have known before we parted that fatal day that I loved you!"
She could not speak because of the happy sob in her throat, but her burning blushes seemed to answer yes, and he pressed her little hand tighter as he continued:
"Yes, even in the brief time I knew you, dearest, you had become the one love of my life, treasured in my heart as the most rare and radiant thing under heaven. And I—I—fancied I read in your sweet smiles that my love would not be given in vain—that I should win you for my own!"
It was like the sweetest music in her ears to hear him telling his love so ardently, with that eager look in his eyes, and such a quiver of hope and fear in his musical voice. It was so dear, so sweet, so thrilling, Geraldine could have listened unweariedly forever.
Oh, first love! what a glimpse through the open gates of heaven it is to the youthful heart! Nothing that comes after, even in the longest life, can compare with it in bliss.
It clothes the world in new beauty, makes the sky more blue, the flowers more fair, the sunlight more golden.