A great shock went coursing through Clifford as he took them from her white gloved hands and regarded them with a yearning look.
Then his eyes—almost black now with the intensity of his emotion—sought her face.
"May I?" he breathed, "may I wear them with the assurance of what they express? Do you know the language of the red moss-rosebud, Mollie?"
A scarlet flood leaped to the fair girl's temples as she realized, too late, the significance of her gift; while his use of her given name, for the first time, set every pulse to bounding wildly. She lifted a startled look to his face; then as quickly her golden lashes dropped upon her flaming cheeks.
"Yes, I know," she murmured, "but I did not think of it when I chose them."
CHAPTER X.
MONSIEUR LAMONTI'S DEATH.
"I know you did not, love," Clifford returned as he bent forward and gathered both her hands into his, "and it was an unfair question, I am afraid. But I love you, dear—I love you. You must have seen it, you must have read it for weeks, for my every thought has been of and for you, and sometimes I have even dared to think that your thought has been responsive to mine, assuring me that I had won your heart, and that my future is to be crowned with the supreme blessing of your love. You do not turn from me—you do not take your hands from mine—may I hope, Mollie? Tell me that you love me—that you will be my wife when I shall have won a position worthy to offer you. May I wear the buds as the token of your assent? Oh, my darling, where can I find language to tell you all that is in my heart? Tell me—tell me!"
His passionate emotion moved her deeply, although his voice had been raised scarcely above a whisper. His fond words, his rich, thrilling tones were like the solemn notes of an organ. She never had been so supremely happy in her life as at that moment, and yet she wanted to weep.
But her whole heart went out to him. She lifted her eyes to his and they were brimming with tears.