"I am getting on excellently," he continued. "By the end of this year, I have no doubt I shall be justified in—in quitting my chambers and taking a house. Perhaps before that."
"Look at that hawthorn!" exclaimed Alice, darting to a hedge they were now passing, for she knew too well what the words implied. "Has it not come out early! It is in full bloom."
"Shall I gather some for you?"
"No. It would be a pity. It looks so well there, and every one who passes can enjoy it. Do you know, I never see the flowering hawthorn but I think of that good old Scotch song, 'Ye banks and braes.' I don't know why."
"Let us sit down here," said he, as they came to a rustic seat under the trees. "And now, Alice, if you would sing that good old song, the charm would be perfect."
She laughed. "What charm?"
"The charm of—everything. The day and hour, the white and pink may budding in the hedges, the wild flowers we crush with our feet, the blue sky and the green trees, the sunshine and the shade, the singing birds and the whispering leaves, and—yourself."
Not another word from either of them just yet. William Stane had allowed his hand to fall on hers. Her head was slightly turned from him, her cheeks were glowing, her heart was beating: it was again another interval of that most sweet and eloquent silence.
"Won't you begin, Alice? The birds 'warbling through the flowering thorn' are waiting to hear you. So am I."
And as if she had no power to resist his will, she began at once, without a dissenting murmur, and sang the song to the end. Excepting the birds above them, there were no listeners: no rover was likely to be near that solitary spot. Her voice was sweet, but not loud; every syllable was spoken distinctly. To sit there for ever, side by side, and not be disturbed, would be a very Eden.