“You mean,” she said, for he made a pause, “when you succeed; but your father is not an old man, and that may be a long, long time.”
“I hope so,” said Walter, fervently; “loving you makes me love everybody else better. I hope it may be a long, long time.”
Again she made no remark—which she might have done, perhaps saying she hoped so too; but no doubt she thought it unnecessary to say what was so certain and evident.
“But,” he cried, pressing her arm again closer to his side, “I didn’t mean anything so lugubrious, I meant when I brought you home. That will be a triumph, darling! They will put up arches for us, and come out to meet us. It shall be a summer evening, not cold like this. We shall have a pair of white horses lit for a bride, though you will be a little more than a bride by that time, Emmy?”
“Shall I?” she said, with a tone of mockery in her laugh.
“Why, of course,” he cried, bending over her, “since it is winter now! You don’t suppose it is to be put off so long. Why, you say yourself you are a will-o’-the-wisp. You would have disappeared by that time if I left you to yourself.”
“That’s true enough,” she said, with another soft suppressed laugh, which made him turn and look at her again, for there seemed a meaning in it more than met the ear.
“Don’t laugh so,” he said, softly. “It sounds as if you would like to wring my heart, only for the fun of it; but it would be no fun to me.”
“Did I?” said she. “No, it is you who are making fun.”
“It is not a thing to laugh about,” cried the boy. “It is tremendous beautiful earnest to me. But I was talking of the coming home. My people would never say a word when they knew it was done, Emmy, and that you and I were one. They might object perhaps before, not knowing you. I am not even sure of that when they knew how I cared for you. Father might; but mother would be on my side.”