Even Hilary smiled at the idea, but he went on.
“He wants you to send him some of those double violets which grow in your garden. You are to put them in a letter which is to go by post.”
“I will go and gather some,” screamed she, in an ecstasy of delight at the idea, and darted away.
He turned to his other companion.
“Do you remember?” said he, bending a look on her she could not meet.
“What?” in a low, trembling whisper, was all she could say.
“These, and what preceded them!” and he drew out and opened a paper, and showed her the contents.
She did remember; she saw the withered flowers, the white ribbon tied in a peculiar knot. They recalled all: the whispered words, the gay festival, the alarm, the accident, the agony of fear, the rescue, and the parting look. Embarrassment and personal feeling were merged in one sentiment, stronger still, gratitude! Clasping her hands, and raising to him a look of trustful earnest, tender gratitude, she exclaimed: “And I have never thanked you; let me now. Oh, Captain Hepburn! you who risked your life for Nest and me, what do we not owe you?” Her tearful eyes said more, far more than her words.
“The risk was nothing,” said he, hastily; “do not speak of that; and the prize was all that I hold dearest on earth!” He had said it at last; she had almost intuitively known what was coming, and she did know what must follow now. She gave him one shy glance, and then hiding her face upon her clasped hands, she tried to conceal the blushes which burnt upon her cheeks.
“Yes, Hilary, it is the truth! the world does not hold another object so dear to me as you. Are you displeased with me for saying so? For you, for your happiness, your welfare, your peace, there is not the thing which I would not dare or suffer myself; and to win your love! if I only knew how to do that!”—