"My pleasantest memory," he said, "is of a little girl named Numè. She was only ten years old when I left home, but she was bright and beautiful as the wild birds that fly across the valleys and make their home close by where we lived."
NUMÈ-SAN.
A flush had risen to the girl's face. She stirred nervously, and there was a slight faltering in her speech as she said: "Tom once told me of her—he said you had told him—that you had told him—you were betrothed to her."
She had expected him to look abashed for a moment, but his face was as calm as ever.
"I will not know that till I am home. My plans are unformed." He looked in her face. "They depend a great deal on you," he continued.
For a moment the girl's lips half-parted to tell him of her own betrothal, but she could not summon the courage to do so while he looked at her with such confidence and trust; besides, her woman's vanity was touched.
"Tell me about Numè," she said, and there was the least touch of pique in her voice.