All at once he knew that he loved Beatrice with every fibre of his being—that she held his heart in the hollow of her hand, to crush or hurt as she pleased. He was shaken like an aspen in a storm—this, then, was why her flower-like face had haunted his dreams.
Swiftly upon the knowledge came a great uplifting, such as Love brings to the man whose life has been clean. It was a proud heart yielding only to the keeper of its keys—the absolute surrender of a kingdom to its queen.
Beatrice was late to breakfast, as usual; and Robert, acutely self-conscious, could not meet her eyes. She brought the basket with her and offered the berries as her contribution to the morning meal. Between gasps of laughter she read the poem, thereby causing mixed emotions in Forsyth. "Did you ever hear anything so ridiculous?" she asked, wiping the tears of mirth from her eyes.
Robert wished that the giver might see the rare pleasure his gift had brought to the recipient, but swiftly reproached himself for the ungenerous thought.
"It was nice of him to remember your birthday, Bee," said Mrs. Mackenzie, who was always ready to defend Ronald.
"How did he know it was my birthday?" demanded Beatrice.
"I told him," replied Mrs. Mackenzie. "He asked me, long ago, to find out when it was and to let him know."
"Clever of him," commented Beatrice, somewhat mollified. "Why didn't you get something for my birthday, Cousin Rob?" she asked, with a winning smile.
"Perhaps I did," he answered; "the day is still young."